Erotic Errata
"Erotic Errata" is a collection of poems about the erotic and how erotica can get us in trouble, thanks to EROS and CUPID, the ancient Greek and Roman gods of erotic love.
Eros was the ancient Greek god of erotic love (or, in biblical terms, "lust") and Cupid was his Roman equivalent. While we tend to think of Cupid as an angelic cherub shooting arrows and making people fall in love, ancient Greek and Roman poets often portrayed Eros/Cupid as a troublemaker who toyed with their affections, then drove them mad with uncontrollable desires! Modern poets have been known to feel the same way...
Erotic Errata
by Michael R. Burch
I didn’t mean to love you; if I did,
it came unbid-
en,
and should’ve remained hid-
den!
Preposterous Eros
by Michael R. Burch
“Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga
Preposterous Eros shot me in
the buttocks, with a Devilish grin,
spent all my money in a rush
then left my heart effete pink mush.
Adrift
by Michael R. Burch
I helplessly loved you
although I was lost
in the veils of your eyes,
grown blind to the cost
of my ignorant folly
—your unreadable rune—
as leashed tides obey
an indecipherable moon.
What Goes Around, Comes
by Michael R. Burch
This is a poem about loss
so why do you toss your dark hair—
unaccountably glowing?
How can you be sure of my heart
when it’s beyond my own knowing?
Or is it love’s pheromones you trust,
my eyes magnetized by your bust
and the mysterious alchemies of lust?
Now I am truly lost!
Unexcused Absence, or, Slip Up
by Michael R. Burch
Christ, how I miss you!,
though your parting kiss is still warm on my lips.
Now the floor is not strewn with your stockings and slips
and the dishes are all stacked away.
You left me today ...
and each word left unspoken now whispers regrets.
Moments
by Michael R. Burch
There were moments full of promise,
like the petal-scented rainfall of early spring,
when to hold you in my arms and to kiss your willing lips
seemed everything.
There are moments strangely empty
full of pale unearthly twilight—how the cold stars stare!—
when to be without you is a dark enchantment
the night and I share.
Who Can Understand Her?
by Michael R. Burch
Who can understand her? Can the stars,
uncertain in their radiant argosy,
who never saw such love, nor such desire,
as when she bent to tower over me,
her hair a perfumed waterfall descending,
and then her breasts, and then—ah!—Ecstasy!
Less Heroic Couplets: Sex Hex
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).
Imperfect Perfection
by Michael R. Burch
You’re too perfect for words—
a problem for a poet.
Expert Advice
by Michael R. Burch
Your breasts are perfect for your lithe, slender body.
Please stop making false comparisons your hobby!
Reflections
by Michael R. Burch
I am her mirror.
I say she is kind,
lovely, breathtaking.
She screams that I’m blind.
I show her her beauty,
her brilliance and compassion.
She refuses to believe me,
for that’s the latest fashion.
She storms and she rages;
she dissolves into tears
while envious Angels
are, by God, her only Peers.
Disconcerted
by Michael R. Burch
Meg, my sweet,
fresh as a daisy,
when I’m with you
my heart beats like crazy
& my future gets hazy ...
honeybee
by Michael R. Burch
love was a little treble thing—
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.
Shattered
by Vera Pavlova
translation by Michael R. Burch
I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.
Harem Scare'm
by Michael R. Burch
I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem.
But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em.
bachelorhoodwinked
by Michael R. Burch
u
are
charming
& disarming,
but mostly ***ALARMING***
since all my resolve
dissolved!
u
are
chic
as a sheikh's
harem girl in the sheets
but now my bed’s no longer my own
and my kingdom's been overthrown!
The Bachelor Spectacular
by Michael R. Burch
One heart? Tossed aside.
The other? A bride’s.
In all his great wisdom, the bachelor decides.
Eeenie, mean-ie, mine-y, mo’,
one gal must stay and one must go.
If she hollers? That’s the show!
No heart can handle such despair!
But hearts get broken, hearts repair.
Next season? The treasoned will rule the air.
Originally published by Light
The Unspectacular Bachelor
by Michael R. Burch
The bachelor is back, he’s black,
and some fair-skinned gals sure want him in the sack!
And, yes, he’s a whole lot smarter
than the previous knights of that peculiar garter.
We can hear the white supremacists stewing:
What the hell are the screenwriters doing?
They know love requires a nice white spark,
and this apprentice is far too dark!
Preposterous Eros (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous Eros,
mischievous elf!
Please aim your missiles
at yourself!
Feel the tingle,
then (you can take it from me),
you’ll fall in love
with the next hussy you see!
She’ll spend all your money,
she’ll take your car...
soon you’ll end up alone
in a sad little bar.
Preposterous Eros,
mischievous elf!
Please aim your missiles
at yourself!
Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch
I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.
Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.
In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Almost
by Michael R. Burch
We had—almost—an affair.
You almost ran your fingers through my hair.
I almost kissed the almonds of your toes.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
You almost contemplated using Nair
and adding henna highlights to your hair,
while I considered plucking you a Rose.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
I almost found the words to say, “I care.”
We almost kissed, and yet you didn’t dare.
I heard coarse stubble grate against your hose.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
You almost called me suave and debonair
(perhaps because my chest is pale and bare?).
I almost bought you edible underclothes.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
I almost asked you where you kept your lair
and if by chance I might seduce you there.
You almost tweezed the redwoods from my nose.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire
on gliding feet; we almost waltzed on air …
until I mashed your plain, unpolished toes.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher.
We almost sat in love’s electric chair
to be enlightninged, till our hearts unfroze.
We almost loved,
that’s always how love goes.
Originally published by Lighten Up Online
Second Sight
by Michael R. Burch
I never touched you—
that was my mistake.
Deep within,
I still feel the ache.
Can an unformed thing
eternally break?
Now, from a great distance,
I see you again
not as you are now,
but as you were then—
eternally present
and Sovereign.
Insurrection
by Michael R. Burch
She has become as the night—listening
for rumors of dawn—while the dew, glistening,
reminds me of her, and the wind, whistling,
lashes my cheeks with its soft chastening.
She has become as the lights—flickering
in the distance—till memories old and troubling
rise up again and demand remembering ...
like peasants rebelling against a mad king.
Water and Gold
by Michael R. Burch
You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joy is an illusion to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.
You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.
You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.
I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.
Desdemona
by Michael R. Burch
Though you possessed the moon and stars,
you are bound to fate and wed to chance.
Your lips deny they crave a kiss;
your feet deny they ache to dance.
Your heart imagines wild romance.
Though you cupped fire in your hands
and molded incandescent forms,
you are barren now, and—spent of flame—
the ashes that remain are borne
toward the sun upon a storm.
You, who demanded more, have less,
your heart within its cells of sighs
held fast by chains of misery,
confined till death for peddling lies—
imprisonment your sense denies.
You, who collected hearts like leaves
and pressed each once within your book,
forgot. None—winsome, bright or rare—
not one was worth a second look.
My heart, as others, you forsook.
But I, though I loved you from afar
through silent dawns, and gathered rue
from gardens where your footsteps left
cold paths among the asters, knew—
each moonless night the nettles grew
and strangled hope, where love dies too.
She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful
by Michael R. Burch
She was very strange, and beautiful,
like a violet mist enshrouding hills
before night falls
when the hoot owl calls
and the cricket trills
and the envapored moon hangs low and full.
She was very strange, in a pleasant way,
as the hummingbird
flies madly still,
so I drank my fill
of her every word.
What she knew of love, she demurred to say.
She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow,
as the sun must set,
as the rain must fall.
Though she gave her all,
I had nothing left ...
yet I smiled, bereft, in her receding glow.
A Surfeit of Light
by Michael R. Burch
There was always a surfeit of light in your presence.
You stood distinctly apart, not of the humdrum world—
a chariot of gold in a procession of plywood.
We were all pioneers of the modern expedient race,
raising the ante: Home Depot to Lowe’s.
Yours was an antique grace—Thrace’s or Mesopotamia’s.
We were never quite sure of your silver allure,
of your trillium-and-platinum diadem,
of your utter lack of flatware-like utility.
You told us that night—your wound would not scar.
The black moment passed, then you were no more.
The darker the sky, how much brighter the Star!
The day of your funeral, I ripped out the crown mold.
You were this fool’s gold.
Free Fall
by Michael R. Burch
These cloudless nights, the sky becomes a wheel
where suns revolve around an axle star ...
Look there, and choose. Decide which moon is yours.
Sink Lethe-ward, held only by a heel.
Advantage. Disadvantage. Who can tell?
To see is not to know, but you can feel
the tug sometimes—the gravity, the shell
as lustrous as damp pearl. You sink, you reel
toward some draining revelation. Air—
too thin to grasp, to breath. Such pressure. Gasp.
The stars invert, electric, everywhere.
And so we fall, down-tumbling through night’s fissure ...
two beings pale, intent to fall forever
around each other—fumbling at love’s tether ...
now separate, now distant, now together.
Fountainhead
by Michael R. Burch
I did not delight in love so much
as in a kiss like linnets' wings,
the flutterings of a pulse so soft
the heart remembers, as it sings:
to bathe there was its transport, brushed
by marble lips, or porcelain,—
one liquid kiss, one cool outburst
from pale rosettes. What did it mean ...
to float awhirl on minute tides
within the compass of your eyes,
to feel your alabaster bust
grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs
seem hisses now; your eyes, serene,
reflect the sun's pale tourmaline.
The Peripheries of Love
by Michael R. Burch
Through waning afternoons we glide
the watery peripheries of love.
A silence, a quietude falls.
Above us—the sagging pavilions of clouds.
Below us—rough pebbles slowly worn smooth
grate in the gentle turbulence
of yesterday’s forgotten rains.
Later, the moon like a virgin
lifts her stricken white face
and the waters rise
toward some unfathomable shore.
We sway gently in the wake
of what stirs beneath us,
yet leaves us unmoved ...
curiously motionless,
as though twilight might blur
the effects of proximity and distance,
as though love might be near—
as near
as a single cupped tear of resilient dew
or a long-awaited face.
Twice
by Michael R. Burch
Now twice she has left me
and twice I have listened
and taken her back, remembering days
when love lay upon us
and sparkled and glistened
with the brightness of dew through a gathering haze.
But twice she has left me
to start my life over,
and twice I have gathered up embers, to learn:
rekindle a fire
from ash, soot and cinder
and softly it sputters, refusing to burn.
Nothing Returns
by Michael R. Burch
A wave implodes,
impaled upon
impassive rocks ...
this evening
the thunder of the sea
is a wild music filling my ear ...
you are leaving
and the disbelieving
wind I hear:
telling me
that nothing returns
as it was before,
here where you have left no mark
upon this dark
Heraclitean shore.
Regret
by Michael R. Burch
Regret,
a bitter
ache to bear ...
once starlight
languished
in your hair ...
a shining there
as brief
as rare.
Regret ...
a pain
I chose to bear ...
unleash
the torrent
of your hair ...
and show me
once again—
how rare.
Love Unfolded Like a Flower
by Michael R. Burch
Love unfolded
like a flower;
Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky.
I came to know you
and to trust you
in moments lost to springtime slipping by.
Then love burst outward,
leaping skyward,
and untamed blossoms danced against the wind.
All I wanted
was to hold you;
though passion tempted once, we never sinned.
Now love's gay petals
fade and wither,
and winter beckons, whispering a lie.
We were friends,
but friendships end . . .
yes, friendships end and even roses die.
Snapshots
by Michael R. Burch
Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows.
And there you go, skipping your way to school.
And here we are, drifting apart
like untethered balloons.
Here I am, creating "art,"
chanting in shadows,
pale as the crinoline moon,
ignoring your face.
There you go,
in diaphanous lace,
making another man’s heart swoon.
Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is,
taking my place.
Infatuate, or Sweet Centerless Sixteen
by Michael R. Burch
Inconsolable as “love” had left your heart,
you woke this morning eager to pursue
warm lips again, or something “really cool”
on which to press your lips and leave their mark.
As breath upon a windowpane at dawn
soon glows, a spreading halo full of sun,
your thought of love blinks wildly—on and on ...
then fizzles at the center, and is gone.
Confession
by Michael R. Burch
What shall I say to you, to confess,
words? Words that can never express
anything close to what I feel?
For words that seem tangible, real,
when I think them
become vaguely surreal when I put ink to them.
And words that I thought that I knew,
like "love" and "devotion"
never ring true.
While "passion"
sounds strangely like the latest fashion
or a perfume.
NOTE: At the time I wrote “Confession” a perfume named Passion was in fashion.
Love is difficult enough, without the complications of religion…
When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch
When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.
As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:
what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.
“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.
Whips! Chains! Domination!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.
Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.
ANCIENT GREEK AND ROMAN POEMS ABOUT EROS AND CUPID
Eros
descends from heaven,
discarding his imperial purple mantle.
—Sappho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eros harrows my heart:
wilds winds whipping desolate mountains,
uprooting oaks.
—Sappho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eros, the limb-shatterer,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.
—Sappho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
That enticing girl's clinging dresses
leave me trembling, overcome by happiness,
as once, when I saw the Goddess in my prayers
eclipsing Cyprus.
—Sappho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A short revealing frock?
It's just my luck
your lips were made to mock!
—Sappho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mother, how can I weave,
so overwhelmed by love?
—Sappho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I lust!
I crave!
Fuck me!
—Sappho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Around the same time Sappho was writing her poems on the island of Lesbos, in nearby Greece, circa 564 B.C., we find another poet complaining about the power of Eros:
Ibykos Fragment 286
translation by Michael R. Burch
Come spring, the grand
apple trees stand
watered by a gushing river
where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver
and the blossoming grape vine swells
in the gathering shadows.
Unfortunately
for me
Eros never rests
but like a Thracian tempest
ablaze with lightning
emanates from Aphrodite;
the results are frightening―
black,
bleak,
astonishing,
violently jolting me from my soles
to my soul.
Matchmaker Love, if you can’t set a couple equally aflame, why not snuff out your torch?
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I hate Eros! Why does that gargantuan God dart my heart, rather than wild beasts? What can a God think to gain by inflaming a man? What trophies can he hope to win with my head?
―Alcaeus of Messene, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You say I should flee from Love, but it’s hopeless!
How can a man on foot escape from a winged creature with unerring accuracy?
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Steady your bow, Cypris, and at your leisure select a likelier target ... for I am too full of arrows to take another wound.
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cypris was another name for Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. Here the poet may be suggesting, “Like mother, like son.”
Have mercy, dear Phoebus, drawer of the bow, for were you not also wounded by love’s streaking arrows?
―Claudianus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In Greek mythology, Cupid shoots Phoebus Apollo to make him fall in love with Daphne, then shoots Daphne with an arrow that prevents her from falling in love with her suitor.
I have armed myself with wisdom against Love;
he cannot defeat me in single combat.
I, a mere mortal, have withstood a God!
But if he enlists the aid of Bacchus,
what odds do I have against the two of them?
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love, if you aim your arrows at both of us impartially, you’re a God, but if you favor one over the other, you’re the Devil!
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Either put an end to lust, Eros, or else insist on reciprocity: abolish desire or heighten it.
―Lucilius or Polemo of Pontus, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Little Love, lay my heart waste;
empty your quiver into me;
leave not an arrow unshot!
Slay me with your cruel shafts,
but when you’d shoot someone else,
you’ll find yourself out of ammo!
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love, how can I call on you:
does Desire dwell with the dead?
Cupid, that bold boy, never bowed his head
to wail.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Cupid, I swear,
your quiver holds only empty air:
for all your winged arrows, set free,
are now lodged in me.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Cupid, if you incinerate my soul, touché!
For she too has wings and can fly away!
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Cupid, the cuddly baby
safe in his mother's lap,
chucking the dice one day,
gambled my heart away.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I lie defeated. Set your foot on my neck. Checkmate.
I recognize you by your weight;
yes, and by the gods, you’re a load to bear.
I am also well aware
of your fiery darts.
But if you seek to ignite human hearts,
fuck off with your tinders;
mine’s already in cinders.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
While these poems by ancient Greek and Roman poets are not about Eros/Cupid, per se, they seem to be cut from the same general cloth ...
Warmthless beauty attracts but does not hold us; it floats like hookless bait.
—Capito, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Accept this garland, Rhodoelea, that I wove with my own hands out of beautiful flowers. There are lilies, roses, dewy anemones, radiant violets and a delicate narcissus. Wear it and relinquish vanity, for like these flowers you too will fade.
—Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let’s bathe, Prodike, then towel our hair
as we drain new wine from the bright cups’ depths,
because the season of celebration is short:
old age forbids joy and soon surrenders to death.
—Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Behold Anacreon's tomb; here the Teian swan sleeps with the unmitigated madness of his love for lads. Still he sings songs of longing on the lyre of Bathyllus and the albescent marble is perfumed with ivy. Death has not quenched his desire and the house of Acheron still burns with the fevers of Cypris.
—Antipater of Sidon (circa 200 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Erinna's verses were few, nor were her songs overlong, but her smallest works were inspired. Therefore she cannot fail to be remembered and is never lost beneath the shadowy wings of bleak night. While we, the estranged, the innumerable throngs of tardy singers, lie in pale corpse-heaps wasting into oblivion. The moaned song of the lone swan outdoes the cawings of countless jackdaws echoing far and wide through darkening clouds.
—Antipater of Sidon (circa 200 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You begrudge men your virginity?
Why? To what purpose?
You will find no one to embrace you in the grave.
The joys of love are for the living.
But in Acheron, dear virgin,
we shall all lie dust and ashes.
—Asclepiades of Samos (circa 320-260 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cypris, if you save those at sea,
beloved goddess, save me,
ship-wrecked on land and dying!
—Anonymous, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My heart warns me to flee
Heliodora,
for well it knows the tears and fiery jealousy
she has caused me.
My heart commands, but alas!, I have no strength to flee
because the shameless hussy warns me
to leave her, even as she kisses me!
—Philodemus or Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Antigone, you once were a rich whore, but now you’ve become a beggar, while I’ve become a miser.
—MARCUS ARGENTARIUS, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dioclea is a slender little Venus blessed with a sweet disposition. Nor will there be much distance between us, when resting on her flat chest I lie all the closer to her heart!
—MARCUS ARGENTARIUS, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Take off those fishnets, Lysidice, you cock-tease, and don't roll your hips when you walk! The folds of your thin dress cling tightly to your voluptuous body, and all your enticements are visible, as if you were naked, and yet remain concealed. If this amuses you, I will dress my erection in gauze!
—MARCUS ARGENTARIUS, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I sent thee sweet perfume,
not so much honouring thee
as it; for the musk you exude
improved the perfume.
—Anonymous, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I suspect this epigram may have influenced Ben Jonson’s lovely song to Celia.
ANCIENT CHINESE EROTICA
The Song of Magpies
Lady Ho (circa 300 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The magpies nest on the Southern hill.
You set your nets on the Northern hill.
The magpies escape, soar free.
What good are your nets?
When magpies fly free, in pairs,
why should they envy phoenixes?
Although I’m a lowly woman,
why should I envy the Duke of Sung?
A Song of White Hair
by Chuo Wen-chun (2nd century BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My love is pure, as my hair is pure.
White, like the mountain snow.
White, like the moon among clouds.
But I lately discovered you are double-minded.
Thus, we must sever.
Today we pledged our love over a goblet of wine.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk alone
beside the dismal moat,
watching the frigid water
flow east, and west,
dismal myself in the bitter weather.
Should love bring only tears?
All I wanted was a man
with a single heart and mind,
for then we would have lived together
as our hair turned white.
Not someone who wriggled fish
with his big bamboo pole!
A loyal man
Is better than rubies.
Spring Song
by Meng Chu (3rd century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
One sunny spring, either March or April,
when the water and grass were the same color,
I met a young man loitering in the road.
How I wish that I’d met him sooner!
Now each sunny spring, whether March or April,
when the water and grass are the same color,
I reach up to pluck flowers from the vines;
their perfume reminds me of my lover’s breath.
Four years, now five, I have awaited you,
as my vigil turned love into grief.
How I wish we could meet in that same lonely place
where I would have surrendered my body
completely to your embraces!
A Song of Hsi-Ling Lake
by Su Hsiao-hsiao (5th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I ride in red carriage.
You canter by on dappled blue stallion.
Where shall we tie our hearts
into a binding love knot?
Beside Hsi-ling Lake beneath the cypress trees.
A Greeting for Lu Hung-Chien
by Li Yeh (8th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The last time you left
the moon shone white over winter frosts.
Now you have returned through a dismal fog
to visit me, still lying here ill.
When I struggle to speak, the tears start.
You urge me to drink T’ao Chien’s wine
while I chant Hsieh Ling-yun’s words of welcome.
It’s good to get drunk now and then:
what else can an invalid do?
Creamy Breasts
by Chao Luan-Luan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Scented with talcum, moist with perspiration,
like pegs of jade inlaid in a harp,
aroused by desire, yet soft as cream,
fertile amid a warm mist
after my bath, as my lover perfumes them,
cups them and plays with them,
cool as melons and purple grapes.
Life in the Palace
by Lady Hua Jui
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At the first of the month
money to buy flowers
for several thousand waiting women
was awarded to the palaces.
But when my name was called,
I was not there
because I was occupied
lasciviously posing
before the emperor’s bed.
The End of Spring
by Li Ch’ing-Chao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The wind ceases,
now nothing is left of Spring but fragrant pollen.
Although it’s late in the day,
I’ve been too exhausted to comb my hair.
The furniture remains the same
but he no longer exists
leaving me unable to move.
When I try to speak, tears choke me.
I hear that Spring is still beautiful
at Two Rivers
and I had hoped to take a boat there,
but now I’m afraid that my little boat
will never reach Two Rivers,
so laden with heavy sorrow.
Sung to the tune of “I Paint My Lips Red”
by an anonymous courtesan or Li Ch’ing-Chao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
After swinging and kicking lasciviously,
I get off to rouge my palms.
Like dew on a delicate flower,
perspiration soaks my thin dress.
A new guest enters
and my stockings flop,
my hairpins fall out.
Pretending embarrassment, I flee,
then lean flirtatiously against the door,
sucking a green plum.
Spring Night, to the tune of “Panning Gold”
by Chu Shu-Chen
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My jade body
remains as lovely as that long-ago evening
when, for the first time,
you turned me away from the lamplight
to unfasten the belt of my embroidered skirt.
Now our sheets and pillows have grown cold
and that evening’s incense has faded.
Beyond the shuttered courtyard
even Spring seems silent, forlorn.
Flowers wilt with the rain these long evenings.
Agony enters my dreams,
making me all the more helpless
and hopeless.
The Day Nears
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The day nears
when I will once again
share the sheets and pillows
I have stored away.
When once more I will shyly
allow you to undress me,
then gently
expose my sealed jewel.
How can I ever describe
the ten thousand beautiful,
sensual ways you always fill me?
Sung to the tune of “Soaring Clouds”
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You held my lotus blossom
between your lips
and nibbled the pistil.
One piece of magic rhinoceros horn
and we were up all night.
All night the cock’s magnificent crest
stood erect.
All night the bee fumbled
with the flower’s stamens.
O, my delicate perfumed jewel!
Only my lord may possess my
sacred lotus pond,
for only he can make my flower
blossom with fire.
Sung to the tune of “Red Embroidered Shoes”
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If you don’t know what you’re doing, why pretend?
Perhaps you can fool foolish girls,
but not Ecstasy itself!
I hoped you’d play with the lotus blossom beneath my green kimono,
like a eunuch with a courtesan,
but it turns out all you can do is fumble and mumble.
You made me slick wet,
but no matter how “hard” you try,
nothing results.
So give up,
find someone else to leave
unsatisfied.
The Letter
by Shao Fei-fei (17th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I trim the wick, then, weeping by lamplight,
write this letter, to be sealed, then sent ten thousand miles,
telling you how wretched I am,
and begging you to free my aching body.
Dear mother, what has become of my bride price?
A Serious Matter
by Michael R. Burch
Listen, love, it’s a serious matter:
I love you better despite the fetter.
I love you madder than any hatter.
Now even though you’re my chains’ begetter
and keep me your slave with that braless sweater,
I love you better despite the fetter.
You say you’re afraid that you’re getting “fatter,”
but your curves are my lust’s prime aider and abettor.
Listen, love, it’s a serious matter.
I love you madder than any hatter.
When you come to bed in sheer lace, my thoughts scatter:
first to the firmer, then to the latter.
Enough with the chatter!
I love you better despite the fetter.
I love you madder than any hatter.
Listen, love, it’s a serious matter!
The Stake
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love, the heart bets,
if not without regrets,
will still prove, in the end,
worth the light we expend
mining the dark
for an exquisite heart.