THE BEST NONSENSE VERSE EVER
These are the all-time best nonsense poems, in one poetry lover's opinion. Please feel free to suggest others in the comments.
NONSENSE VERSE
by Michael R. Burch
Where can nonsense poems be found? Here, for free!
The Cow
by Ogden Nash
The cow is of the bovine ilk;
One end is moo, the other, milk.
I will provide more of my favorite nonsense verse after a brief overview of the genre, followed by a BRIEF TIMELINE OF NONSENSE VERSE and FURTHER READING index. Last, but not least, but decidedly to be avoided by underage children, is my personal favorite section, NAUGHTY NONSENSE VERSE.
Famous writers of nonsense poems, also known as nonsense verse, include Ogden Nash, Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll, Dr. Seuss, William Shakespeare, Isaac Asimov, W.H. Auden, the Beatles, Hilaire Belloc, Chuck Berry, Lord Byron, Robert Conquest, Eugene Field, Benny Hill, Rudyard Kipling, John Lennon, Spike Milligan, Dorothy Parker, Shel Silverstein, Weird Al Yankovic, Oscar Wilde and the anonymous poets of Mother Goose and other nursery rhymes.
Some of the best-known nonsense poems include:
“The Owl and the Pussycat” by Edward Lear
“Wynken, Blynken, and Nod” by Eugene Field
“Jabberwocky,” “The Walrus and The Carpenter” and “You Are Old, Father William” by Lewis Carroll
“The Turtle,” “The Ant,” “The Termite,” “The Cow” and “The Ostrich” by Ogden Nash
“The Hippopotamus” and “The Vulture” by Hilaire Belloc
“Full Fathom Five” by William Shakespeare
“There Was a Little Girl (who had a little curl)” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
"On the Ning Nang Nong" by Spike Milligan
The more popular forms of humorous poetry include puns, doggerel, limericks, clerihews, double dactyls, spoonerisms and McWhirtles. The wider genre is typically called light verse, light poetry and/or humorous verse.
Now here, without further ado, are some of the best nonsense poems of all time ...
The Turtle
by Ogden Nash
The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks
Which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle
In such a fix to be so fertile.
The Hippopotamus
by Hilaire Belloc
I shoot the Hippopotamus
With bullets made of platinum,
Because if I use leaden ones
His hide is sure to flatten 'em.
Belloc's nonsense inspired this rejoinder of mine:
The Hippopotami
by Michael R. Burch
There’s no seeing eye to eye
with the awesomely huge Hippopotami:
on the bank, you’re much taller;
going under, you’re smaller
and assuredly destined to die!
Full Fathom Five
by William Shakespeare
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them — ding-dong, bell.
There Was a Little Girl
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was horrid.
The Ostrich
by Ogden Nash
The ostrich roams the great Sahara.
Its mouth is wide, its neck is narra.
It has such long and lofty legs,
I'm glad it sits to lay its eggs.
The Termite
by Ogden Nash
Some primal termite knocked on wood
And tasted it, and found it good!
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.
Some of the best longer nonsense poems appear later on this page, including “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod” by Eugene Field; “Jabberwocky,” “The Walrus and The Carpenter” and “You Are Old, Father William” by Lewis Carroll; and “The Owl and the Pussycat” by Edward Lear.
The most common form of nonsense verse is the limerick. This is one of my all-time favorite limericks and it illustrates how punning wordplay can "spice up" limericks:
A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
Though I’m damned if I know how the helican!
—C. M. Marshton? Dixon Lanier Merritt? Jeff McLemore? George Lizotte? Willis B. Powell? Bennett Cerf? Ogden Nash?
There are a number of versions of the bit of oddball humor above. The earliest version appeared in the Tampa Morning Tribune on April 2, 1913 and was ascribed to C. M. Marshton, who said he got it from relatives. When the Dixon Lanier Merritt version appeared in the Nashville Banner on April 22, 1913, he claimed it was a "postcard poem" sent by a gentleman's "best girl" in Clarksville. Jeff McLemore was temporarily given credit for writing the poem, but he too blamed it on some unknown person. When LIFE magazine published yet another version of the poem, Merritt suggested that LIFE should be blamed in retrospect! The jokes about disowning authorship are almost as entertaining as the orphaned limerick!
I had to get in on the act, however belatedly:
The Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch
Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!
Can nonsense verse be used to explain Einstein's theory of relativity?
There was a young lady named Bright
who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day
in a relative way,
and came back the previous night.
I recently learned that the limerick above was originally penned in a slightly different version by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller; his limerick appeared in Punch (Dec. 19, 1923).
I find it intriguing that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick. The limerick above inspired me to pen―not one―but two rejoinders:
Asstronomical I
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
said E equals MC squared.
Thus all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my ass declared!
Asstronomical II
by Michael R. Burch
Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says mass increases with speed.
My (m)ass grows when I sit it.
Mr. Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
Writers of nonsense verse can attempt things far more difficult than explaining the theory of relativity. For instance, they can tackle the Mt. Everest of poetry and try to rhyme with the words "orange" and "silver" ...
Eating an orange
While making love
Makes for bizarre enj-
Oyment thereof.
—Tom Lehrer
Lehrer has also proposed "far hinge," "fore hinge," "larynges" and "pharynges" as rhymes for "orange." He should at least get an E for Effort!
To find a rhyme for “silver,”
Or any “rhymeless” rhyme
Requires only will, ver-
Bosity and time.
—Stephen Sondheim
Mt. Everest is looking more and more attractive!
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!
Two Owls and a Hen,
Four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard!"
—Edward Lear
Hey diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle.
The cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed to see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
—Mother Goose
Hickory dickory dock,
the mouse ran up the clock;
the clock struck one
and down he run;
hickory dickory dock.
—Mother Goose
There was a young lady of Niger
who smiled as she rode on a tiger;
They returned from the ride
with the lady inside,
and the smile on the face of the tiger.
—attributed to Edward Lear and William Cosmo Monkhouse
The Wasp
by Ogden Nash
The wasp and all his numerous family
I look upon as a major calamity.
He throws open his nest with prodigality,
But I distrust his waspitality.
The Crocodile
by Lewis Carroll
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin!
How neatly spread his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!
Clyde Lied, or, Honeymoon Not-So-Sweet
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."
The origin of the name "limerick" for this poetic form is still being debated. The term was first officially documented in England in 1898, in the New English Dictionary, but the form itself is much older. The name is generally considered to be a reference to the city or county of Limerick, Ireland, and may derive from a parlor game that included a refrain such as "Will [or won't] you come (up) to Limerick?" The earliest known use of the name "limerick" for a short, humorous lyric is an 1880 reference in a New Brunswick newspaper to a tune apparently well-known at the time, "Won’t you come to Limerick?"
The earliest published American limerick appeared in 1902 in the Princeton Tiger:
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.
The Octopus
by Ogden Nash
Tell me, O Octopus, I begs
Is those things arms, or is they legs?
I marvel at thee, Octopus;
If I were thou, I'd call me Us.
Further Reflections on Parsley
by Ogden Nash
Parsley
Is gharsley.
A much-needed screed against licentious insects
by Michael R. Burch
Army ants? ARMY ants?
Yet so undisciplined to not wear pants?
How incredibly rude
to wage war in the nude!
We moralists call them SMARMY ants!
LONGER NONSENSE POEMS
Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There)
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought —
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
The Owl and the Pussy-cat
by Edward Lear
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'
II
Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
by Eugene Field
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe—
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea—
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish—
Never afeard are we";
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam—
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
'T was all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought 't was a dream they 'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea—
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The Walrus and The Carpenter
by Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There)
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done—
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead—
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
You Are Old, Father William
by Lewis Carroll
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age age, it is right?"
"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, " as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back somersault in at the door—
Pray, what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—
Allow me to sell you a couple?"
"You are old," said the youth, " and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the back—
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was steady as ever;
Yet, you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!
The HyperTexts
The Best Poems of Michael R. Burch (in his own opinion and Google's, with some differences of opinion here and there)
Michael R. Burch is an American poet, editor and translator who lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Beth, son Jeremy, two outrageously spoiled puppies, and the ghost of a hamster, Olive, murdered by a former canine family member. For an expanded bio, circum vitae, career timeline and other information of interest to scholars, please click here: Michael R. Burch Expanded Bio. These are Mike Burch's best poems and best translations, in his own opinion, and that of Google, with Burch's comments from time to time …
I let Google pick the first 50 poems, or so, by using the searches:
Michael R. Burch most popular poems
Michael R. Burch best poems
There are a number of ties because Google has changed its ratings of my poems from time to time. These are my best and/or my most popular poems according to Google…
Epitaph for a Homeless Child (#1 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Over the years this poem has been published with a number of different titles. It began as a Holocaust poem with the title "Epitaph for a Child of the Holocaust." When I became a peace activist and the author of a peace plan for Israel/Palestine, I published versions titled "Epitaph for a Palestinian Child" and "Epitaph for a Child of the Nakba." There have also been publications dedicated to the children of Darfur, Haiti, Hiroshima and Sandy Hook. This has become one of my most popular poems on the Internet, with 92K Google results at one time. A peace activist said the poem was like a ghost touching her. I agree with Google and rank my epitaph first out of all my two-liners and other original epigrams.
Will There Be Starlight (#1 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?
And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?
And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?
I must admit that I like Google's choice for my most popular poem. No arguments here. The last time I checked, "Will There Be Starlight" had 672 Google results. That much cutting and pasting suggests many readers liked the poem. I wrote it around age 18, while in high school. "Will There Be Starlight" has been published by TALESetc, Starlight Archives, The Word (UK), Poezii (in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte), The Chained Muse, Famous Poets & Poems, Grassroots Poetry, Inspirational Stories, Jenion, Regalia, Chalk Studio, Poetry Webring and Writ in Water; it has also been set to music by the award-winning New Zealand composer David Hamilton and read on YouTube by Ben E. Smith.
To have a poem written as a teenager translated into Romanian, set to music by a talented composer, performed by one of the better poetry readers, and published in multiple literary journals is not a bad start!
Moments (#2)
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
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.
I think "Moments" is one of my better poems. No argument with Google here.
I Pray Tonight (#3 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
I pray tonight
the starry Light
might
surround you.
I pray
by day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.
I pray ere the morrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.
"I Pray Tonight" has been set to music by three composers: Mark Buller, David Hamilton and Kyle Scheuing. That's quite a compliment! At the height of its popularity, "I Pray Tonight" had 1.1K Google results. While I don't think this is the third-best poem that I've written, I like to think it has magical powers of comfort and protection. If I told you why, you wouldn't believe me. But perhaps print it out and keep in in your wallet or purse, in case you ever need white chorales of angels to watch over you. How Google figured this one out, I haven't a clue, but I do approve.
Something (#3 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
―for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba
Something inescapable is lost—
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—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.
Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
which finality has swept into a corner … where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.
"Something" was my first poem that didn't rhyme. This was not a conscious decision on my part; the poem came to me "out of blue nothing" to quote my friend the Maltese poet Joe Ruggier. I wrote "Something" in my late teens. At the height of its popularity, "Something" had 1.5K Google results. I agree with Google here.
The Harvest of Roses (#4)
by Michael R. Burch
I have not come for the harvest of roses—
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme …
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.
Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer—
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.
I would have a lover's quarrel with the Imagists, except that I don't love their preoccupation with "things." I don't think this is my fourth-best poem, but I do like it, and perhaps Google groks my differences of opinion with William Carlos Williams, et al. This is one of my early poems, written in my early twenties. At the height of its popularity, "The Harvest of Roses" had 3.6K Google results. Not bad for a young poet testing his wings and taking on the big name poets.
Because Her Heart Is Tender (#5)
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
She scrawled soft words in soap: "Never Forget,"
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: "Never Forget,"
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in wet linen: "NEVER FORGET,"
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.
The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond …
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.
She writes in adamant: "NEVER FORGET"
because her heart is tender with regret.
This is a true poem about what my wife Beth did on the first anniversary of 9-11. This is the sort of unabashedly sentimental poem that no self-respecting "major journal" would publish … but then what do any of them know about poetry, much less human hearts? I love this villanelle because it captures Beth in all her fury and all her love. It may not be a great poem, but I think readers will grok Beth, so hopefully the poem accomplishes its purpose. I concur with Google on this poem.
Free Fall (#6 tie)
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 breathe. 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.
I suspect Google has rated this poem a bit too highly, but I like it and believe it captures something of the chaotic and contradictory nature of human love affairs.
Cheyenne Proverb (#6 tie)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Before you judge
a man for his sins
be sure to trudge
many moons in his moccasins.
I began writing poetry around age eleven, mostly for personal amusement at first, then started to write with larger goals in mind around age thirteen or fourteen (I was very ambitious). "Styx" is one of my earliest poems, written in my teens …
Styx (#7 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
Black waters,
deep and dark and still …
all men have passed this way,
or will.
Poems I wrote as a teenager have been published by literary journals like The Lyric, Setu (India), Borderless Journal (Singapore), Nebo, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Blue Unicorn, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, New Lyre, Romantics Quarterly, Penny Dreadful and Trinacria. Today my poetry has been translated into 19 languages, taught in high schools and colleges, and set to music 55 times by 31 composers. But it all started in my boyhood with early poems like "Styx," "Infinity," "Observance" and "Leave Taking."
In Praise of Meter (#7 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
The earth is full of rhythms so precise
the octave of the crystal can produce
a trillion oscillations, yet not lose
a second's beat. The ear needs no device
to hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch
drown out the mouth's; the lips can be debauched
by kisses, should the heart put back its watch
and find the pulse of love, and sing, devout.
If moons and tides in interlocking dance
obey their numbers, what's been left to chance?
Should poets be more lax—their circumstance
as humble as it is?—or readers wince
to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear
the moans of drones drown out the Chanticleer?
I admit a special fondness for this poem, liking to think that I pen musical poetry from time to time. I concur with Google here.
Caveat Spender (#8 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
It’s better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe’s
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of
EXAGGERATION.
I like to believe that I have my moments of cleverness, and that this poem is one of them. While #8 may be too high for a bit of fluff, I am inclined to agree with Google here. It makes me chuckle and that is the poem's purpose.
Infinity (#8 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?
Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air
that your heart sought its shell like a crab on a beach,
then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?
Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage
on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?
Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,
have dreamed of infinity … windswept and blue.
This is the second poem that made me feel like a "real" poet, after "Reckoning/Observance." I remember reading "Infinity" and asking myself, "Did I really write that?" Many years later, I'm still glad that I wrote it, and it still makes me feel like a real poet. I believe I wrote "Infinity" around 1976, at age 18. But I wasn't happy with some of the verses in the longer initial version, and over time I pared the poem down to the version above. "Infinity" was originally published by TC Broadsheet Verses (for a whopping $10, my first cash payment) then subsequently by Piedmont Literary Review, Penny Dreadful, the Net Poetry and Art Competition, Songs of Innocence, Setu (India), Better Than Starbucks, Borderless Journal (Singapore), Poetry Life & Times, Formal Verse (Potcake Poet’s Choice) and The Chained Muse.
A Surfeit of Light (#9)
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.
This was an usual poem for me to write. I was trying to capture the idea of someone endowed with grace but struggling with the basics of life. I am inclined to agree with Google about this poem.
Sweet Rose of Virtue (#10)
by William Dunbar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue men hold most dear―
except only that you are merciless.
Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I found flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet nowhere one leaf nor petal of rue.
I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair flower and left her downcast;
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that I long to plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.
If the tenth line seems confusing, it helps to know that rue symbolizes pity and also has medicinal uses; thus I believe the unrequiting lover is being accused of a lack of compassion and perhaps of withholding her healing attentions. The penultimate line can be taken as a rather naughty double entendre, but I will leave that interpretation up to the reader! I agree with Google here.
Autumn Conundrum (#11)
by Michael R. Burch
It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.
I am inclined to give myself high marks for the title. It even looks poetic! I think the ranking is a bit high for such a short poem, but I do like it myself. And readers seem to agree, because at the height of its popularity, "Autumn Conundrum" had 1.4K Google results and was still climbing.
Let Me Give Her Diamonds (#12)
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Let me give her diamonds
for my heart’s
sharp edges.
Let me give her roses
for my soul’s
thorn.
Let me give her solace
for my words
of treason.
Let the flowering of love
outlast a winter
season.
Let me give her books
for all my lack
of reason.
Let me give her candles
for my lack
of fire.
Let me kindle incense,
for our hearts
require
the breath-fanned
flaming perfume
of desire.
I can't call this a great poem, and yet I wouldn't change a word of it. The poem is an apology of sorts: one nearly every husband has probably owed his wife innumerable times. Not a great poem, perhaps, but still one that seems close to saying exactly what it intends to say.
Step Into Starlight (#13)
by Michael R. Burch
Step into starlight,
lovely and wild,
lonely and longing,
a woman, a child …
Throw back drawn curtains,
enter the night,
dream of his kiss
as a comet ignites …
Then fall to your knees
in a wind-fumbled cloud
and shudder to hear
oak hocks groaning aloud.
Flee down the dark path
to where the snaking vine bends
and withers and writhes
as winter descends …
And learn that each season
ends one vanished day,
that each pregnant moon holds
no spent tides in its sway …
For, as suns seek horizons—
boys fall, men decline.
As the grape sags with its burden,
remember—the wine!
I believe I wrote the original version of this poem in my early twenties. I was trying to capture what it feels like to be a young girl, and in love, and pregnant, and betrayed, all at once.
Frail Envelope of Flesh (#14)
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of the Holocaust and Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable …
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss …
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears …
I read the phrase "Frail envelope of flesh!" in a comic book as a boy and never forgot it. Eventually, it occurred to me to write a poem with that title and theme. I wrote the poem circa 1978 around age 20. When I published the poem online, probably around 2002 after it had been published by The Lyric, I scoured the Internet for the phrase "frail envelope of flesh" trying to find the comic where I had read it as a boy, but the phrase was unknown to Google. But today other writers are using it, so I suspect that I gave it a second life. At the height of its popularity, "Frail Envelope of Flesh" had 1.4K Google results. It has been set to music by the composer Eduard de Boer and performed in Europe by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. It has been translated into Arabic by Nizar Sartawi, into Italian by Mario Rigli, and into Vietnamese by Ngu Yen. It is being taught in online courseware by Course Hero. "Frail Envelope of Flesh" has been published by The Lyric, Promosaik (Germany), Setu (India), Sindhu News (India), Tho Tru Tinh (in a Vietnamese translation by Ngu Yen), Sejak Sajak Di (Indonesia), Orphans of Gaza, Irish Blog, Alarshef, ArtVilla, Borderless Journal (Singapore), Daily Motion, Poetry Life & Times, Generations Shall Call Them Blessed (a Holocaust book by Dan Paulos) and Academia.edu.
Myth (#15)
by Michael R. Burch
Here the recalcitrant wind
sighs with grievance and remorse
over fields of wayward gorse
and thistle-throttled lanes.
And she is the myth of the scythed wheat
hewn and sighing, complete,
waiting, lain in a low sheaf—
full of faith, full of grief.
Here the immaculate dawn
requires belief of the leafed earth
and she is the myth of the mown grain—
golden and humble in all its weary worth.
I believe I wrote the first version of this early poem toward the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18 in late 1976. To my recollection this is my only poem directly influenced by the “sprung rhythm” of Dylan Thomas (moreso than that of Gerard Manley Hopkins). But I was not happy with the fourth line and put the poem aside for more than 20 years, until 1998, when I revised it. But I was still not happy with the fourth line, so I put it aside and revised it again in 2020, nearly half a century after originally writing the original poem!
don’t forget (#16)
by michael r. burch
for Beth
don’t forget to remember
that Space is curved (like your Heart)
and that even Light
is bent by your Gravity.
The opening lines of my poem were inspired by a famous love poem by e. e. cummings. I like the poem, but most of the credit is due to mr. cummings.
Enigma (#17)
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
O, terrible angel,
bright lover and avenger,
full of whimsical light and vile anger;
wild stranger,
seeking the solace of night, or the danger;
pale foreigner,
alien to man, or savior.
Who are you,
seeking consolation and passion
in the same breath,
screaming for pleasure, bereft
of all articles of faith,
finding life
harsher than death?
Grieving angel,
giving more than taking,
how lucky the man
who has found in your love, this—our reclamation;
fallen wren,
you must strive to fly though your heart is shaken;
weary pilgrim,
you must not give up though your feet are aching;
lonely child,
lie here still in my arms; you must soon be waking.
Google and I will have to disagree on this poem. I rank "Enigma" higher than most of the poems Google has ranked above it. And I'm sure Beth would agree.
Breakings (#18)
by Michael R. Burch
I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.
But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?
I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.
But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in such great matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.
I suspect Google has overrated this poem. This is a protest poem and I believe the protest is warranted, but #18 is too high, I fear.
The Peripheries of Love (#19)
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.
I think this poem is better than some of those ranked above it.
For All That I Remembered (#20)
by Michael R. Burch
For all that I remembered, I forgot
her name, her face, the reason that we loved …
and yet I hold her close within my thought.
I feel the burnished weight of auburn hair
that fell across her face, the apricot
clean scent of her shampoo, the way she glowed
so palely in the moonlight, angel-wan.
The memory of her gathers like a flood
and bears me to that night, that only night,
when she and I were one, and if I could …
I'd reach to her this time and, smiling, brush
the hair out of her eyes, and hold intact
each feature, each impression. Love is such
a threadbare sort of magic, it is gone
before we recognize it. I would crush
my lips to hers to hold their memory,
if not more tightly, less elusively.
I rank this poem higher than Google. It may help, at times, to have a human heart.
Floating (#21 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll;
they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night.
Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips
moist and frantic against my own.
Memories of ghostly white limbs …
of soft sighs
heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans.
We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams,
green waves of algae billowing about you,
becoming your hair.
Suspended there,
where pale sunset discolors the sea,
I see all that you are
and all that you have become to me.
Your love is a sea,
and I am its trawler—
harbored in dreams,
I ride out night’s storms.
Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning,
dreaming the solace of your warm breasts,
pondering your riddles, savoring the feel
of the explosions of your hot, saline breath.
And I rise sometimes
from the tropical darkness
to gaze once again out over the sea …
You watch in the moonlight
that brushes the water;
bright waves throw back your reflection at me.
This is one of my more surreal poems, as the sea and lover become one. I believe I wrote this one at age 19. It has been published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine and Poetry Life & Times. The poem may have had a different title when it was originally published, but it escapes me … ah, yes, "Entanglements."
To Flower (#21 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
When Pentheus ["grief'] went into the mountains in the garb of the bacchae, his mother [Agave] and the other maenads, possessed by Dionysus, tore him apart (Euripides, Bacchae; Apollodorus 3.5.2; Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.511-733; Hyginus, Fabulae 184). The agave dies as soon as it blooms; the moonflower, or night-blooming cereus, is a desert plant of similar fate.
We are not long for this earth, I know—
you and I, all our petals incurled,
till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow.
Is there love anywhere in this strange world?
The Agave knows best when it's time to die
and rages to life with such rapturous leaves
her name means Illustrious. Each hour more high,
she claws toward heaven, for, if she believes
in love at all, she has left it behind
to flower, to flower. When darkness falls
she wilts down to meet it, where something crawls:
beheaded, bewildered. And since love is blind,
she never adored it, nor watches it go.
Can we be as she is, moonflower aglow?
Second Sight (#22)
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.
Passionate One (#23)
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love of my life,
light of my morning―
arise, brightly dawning,
for you are my sun.
Give me of heaven
both manna and leaven―
desirous Presence,
Passionate One.
"Passionate One" has five stars at PoemHunter.
Cleansings (#24 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
Walk here among the walking specters. Learn
inhuman patience. Flesh can only cleave
to bone this tightly if their hearts believe
that God is good, and never mind the Urn.
A lentil and a bean might plump their skin
with mothers’ bounteous, soft-dimpled fat
(and call it “health”), might quickly build again
the muscles of dead menfolk. Dream, like that,
and call it courage. Cry, and be deceived,
and so endure. Or burn, made wholly pure.
If one prayer is answered,
“G-d” must be believed.
No holy pyre this—death’s hissing chamber.
Two thousand years ago—a starlit manger,
weird Herod’s cries for vengeance on the meek,
the children slaughtered. Fear, when angels speak,
the prophesies of man.
Do what you "can,"
not what you must, or should.
They call you “good,”
dead eyes devoid of tears; how shall they speak
except in blankness? Fear, then, how they weep.
Escape the gentle clutching stickfolk. Creep
away in shame to retch and flush away
your vomit from their ashes. Learn to pray.
Published by Other Voices International, Promosaik (Germany), Inspirational Stories, Ulita (Russia), The Neovictorian/Cochlea and Trinacria
in-flight convergence (#24 tie)
by Michael R. Burch
serene, almost angelic,
the lights of the city ———— extend ————
over lumbering behemoths
shrilly screeching displeasure;
they say
that nothing is certain,
that nothing man dreams or ordains
long endures his command
here the streetlights that flicker
and those blazing steadfast
seem one: from a distance;
descend,
they abruptly
part ways,
so that nothing is one
which at times does not suddenly blend
into garish insignificance
in the familiar alleyways,
in the white neon flash
and the billboards of Convenience
and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance
as we thunder down the enlightened runways.
Originally published by The Aurorean where it was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. I rank this poem higher than Google.
In the Whispering Night (#25)
by Michael R. Burch
for George King
In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
as the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our husks into some savage ocean
and laugh as they shatter, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze …
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.
This is a poem I wrote for my favorite college English teacher, George King, about poetic kinship, brotherhood and romantic flights of fancy. At the height of its popularity, "In the Whispering Night" had 1.6K Google results. I rank this poem higher than Google. It has five stars at PoemHunter.
Ordinary Love (#26)
by Michael R. Burch
Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way
and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white …
indescribably in love. Or so we say.
Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.
Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say
we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.
Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; originally published by Romantics Quarterly where it was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Wulf and Eadwacer (#27)
(Anonymous, circa 960-990 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different.
Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here bloodthirsty men howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different.
My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained and I wept,
big, battle-strong arms embraced me.
It felt good, to a point, but the end was loathsome.
Wulf, oh, my Wulf! My desire for you
has made me sick; your seldom-comings
have left me famished, deprived of real meat.
Do you hear, Heaven-Watcher? A wolf has borne
our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.
Translator's Note: "Wulf and Eadwacer" is one of the truly great poems in the English language: a bittersweet saga of love and perhaps rape and betrayal. This ancient poem has been characterized as an elegy, a wild lament, a lover's lament, a passion play, a riddle, and as a song or early ballad with a refrain. However, most modern scholars choose to place it, along with The Wife's Lament, within the genre of the frauenlied, or woman's song. It may be the first extant poem authored by a woman in the fledgling English language, although the poet and his/her sex remain unknown. But it seems likely that the poet was a woman because we don't usually think of ancient warriors and scops pretending to be women. "Wulf and Eadwacer" is perhaps the first Old English poem to contain sexual intrigue not adulterated by Christian monks. It may also be called the first English feminist text, as the speaker seems to be challenging and mocking the man who has raped and impregnated her. And the poem's closing metaphor of a loveless relationship being like a song in which two voices never harmonized remains one of the strongest in the English language, or any language. The poem is also notable for its rich ambiguity, which leaves much open to reader interpretation. For instance, the "wolf" that has borne the whelp to the woods might be Wulf, the heartsick female speaker, Eadwacer, Eadwacer's jealous wife, or some other member of the clan. We do not know what happened to the child in the woods, but we have the impression of a dark catastrophe: perhaps human sacrifice. "Wulf and Eadwacer" is also one of the first English poems to employ a refrain, a hallmark of the great ballads and villanelles to come. The poem appeared in the Exeter Book, between "Deor's Lament" and the riddles, meaning that it was written no later than around 990 AD. But the poem itself is probably older, perhaps much older. I hope readers enjoy my other translations of this wonderfully powerful, haunting poem that speaks to us from the dawn of time and English poetry.—Michael R. Burch
Abide (#28)
by Michael R. Burch
after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"
It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea
boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.
And so we abide …
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think).
Originally published by Light Quarterly
Google may be overestimating this poem, but it makes me chuckle every time I read it.
The Divide (#29)
by Michael R. Burch
The sea was not salt the first tide …
was man born to sorrow that first day
with the moon—a pale beacon across the Divide,
the brighter for longing, an object denied—
the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay?
The sea was not salt the first tide …
but grew bitter, bitter—man's torrents supplied.
The bride of their longing—forever astray,
her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay.
The sea was not salt the first tide …
imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide.
The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.
The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love's concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.
The sea was not salt the first tide …
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.
The Folly of Wisdom (#30)
by Michael R. Burch
She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.
We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow …
And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes—
I can almost remember—goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.
She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker’s knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me
rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.
Fahr an' Ice (#31)
by Michael R. Burch
From what I know of death, I'll side with those
who'd like to have a say in how it goes:
just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker),
and real fahr off, instead of quicker.
I owe apologies to both Robert Frost and Ogden Nash for this one!
The Shrinking Season (#32)
by Michael R. Burch
With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.
I rank this poem higher than Google.
Be that Rock (#33)
by Michael R. Burch
for George Edwin Hurt Sr.
When I was a child
I never considered man’s impermanence,
for you were a mountain of adamant stone:
a man steadfast, immense,
and your words rang.
And when you were gone,
I still heard your voice, which never betrayed,
"Be strong and of a good courage,
neither be afraid …"
as the angels sang.
And, O!, I believed
for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave
though the years slipped away
with so little to save
of that talk.
Now I'm a man—
a man … and yet Grandpa … I'm still the same child
who sat at your feet
and learned as you smiled.
Be that rock.
I don't remember when I wrote this poem, but I will guess around age 18. The verse quoted is from an old, well-worn King James Bible my grandfather gave me after his only visit to the United States, as he prepared to return to England with my grandmother. I was around eight at the time and didn't know if I would ever see my grandparents again, so I was heartbroken—destitute, really. Fortunately my father was later stationed at an Air Force base in Germany and we were able to spend four entire summer vacations with my grandparents. I was also able to visit them in England several times as an adult. But the years of separation were very difficult for me and I came to detest things that separated me from my family and friends: the departure platforms of train stations, airport runways, even the white dividing lines on lonely highways and interstates as they disappeared behind my car. My idea of heaven became a place where we are never again separated from our loved ones. And that puts hell here on earth.
Crescendo Against Heaven (#34)
by Michael R. Burch
As curiously formal as the rose,
the imperious Word grows
until it sheds red-gilded leaves:
then heaven grieves
love’s tiny pool of crimson recrimination
against God, its contention
of the price of salvation.
These industrious trees,
endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves,
finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing
themselves to bits, washing
themselves free
of all but the final ignominy
of death, become
at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb.
Together now, rude coffins, crosses,
death-cursed but bright vermilion roses,
bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire
together with a nearby spire
to raise their Accusation Dire …
to scream, complain, to point out these
and other Dark Anomalies.
God always silent, ever afar,
distant as Bethlehem’s retrograde star,
we point out now, in resignation:
You asked too much of man’s beleaguered nation,
gave too much strength to his Enemy,
as though to prove Your Self greater than He,
at our expense, and so men die
(whose accusations vex the sky)
yet hope, somehow, that You are good …
just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood.
Desdemona (#35)
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.
Ali’s Song (#36)
by Michael R. Burch
They say that gold don’t tarnish. It ain’t so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, “called a spade a spade.”
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.
Ain’t got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me nigger, did me wrong.
A man can’t be lukewarm, ’cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
They said, “Now here’s your bullet and your gun,
and there’s your cell: we’re waiting, you choose one.”
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.
My face reflected up, dark bronze like gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—Bold.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child,
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.
Note: Cassius Clay, who converted to Islam and changed his “slave name” to Muhammad Ali, said that he threw his Olympic boxing gold medal into the Ohio River. Confirming his account, the medal was recovered by Robert Bradbury and his wife Pattie in 2014 during the Annual Ohio River Sweep, and the Ali family paid them $200,000 to regain possession of the medal. When drafted during the Vietnamese War, Ali refused to serve, reputedly saying: “I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a nigger.” The notice mentioned in my poem is Ali's draft notice, which metaphorically gets tossed into the river along with his slave name. I was told through the grapevine that this poem appeared in Farsi in an Iranian publication called Bashgah. The poem was originally published by the literary journal Black Medina.―Michael R. Burch
Auschwitz Rose (#37)
by Michael R. Burch
There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar,
a rose like Sharon's, lovely as her name.
The world forgot her, and is not the same.
I still love her and enlist this sacred fire
to keep her memory's exalted flame
unmolested by the thistles and the nettles.
On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles;
they sleep alike—diminutive and tall,
the innocent, the "surgeons."
Sleeping, all.
Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals,
if accidents of coloration, gall
my heart no less.
Amid thick weeds and muck
there lies a rose man's crackling lightning struck:
the only Rose I ever longed to pluck.
Soon I'll bed there and bid the world "Good Luck."
"Auschwitz Rose" has a five-star rating on PoemHunter.
The Pain of Love (#38)
by Michael R. Burch
for Tom Merrill
The pain of love is this:
the parting after the kiss;
the train steaming from the station
whistling abnegation;
each interstate’s bleak white bar
that vanishes under your car;
every hour and flower and friend
that cannot be saved in the end;
dear things of immeasurable cost …
now all irretrievably lost.
The title “The Pain of Love” was suggested by Little Richard, then eighty years old, in an interview with Rolling Stone. Little Richard said someone should create a song called “The Pain of Love.” How could I not obey a living legend? I have always found the departure platforms of railway stations and the vanishing broken white bars of highway dividing lines to be depressing, so they were natural images for my poem. Perhaps someone can set the lyrics to music and fulfill the Great Commission! "The Pain of Love" has five stars at PoemHunter.
The Effects of Memory (#39)
by Michael R. Burch
A black ringlet
curls to lie
at the nape of her neck,
glistening with sweat
in the evaporate moonlight …
This is what I remember
now that I cannot forget.
And tonight,
if I have forgotten her name,
I remember:
rigid wire and white lace
half-impressed in her flesh …
our soft cries, like regret,
… the enameled white clips
of her bra strap
still inscribe dimpled marks
that my kisses erase …
now that I have forgotten her face.
I rank this poem higher than Google. "The Effects of Memory" has five stars at PoemHunter.
Childless (#40)
by Michael R. Burch
How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
of one fallen star.
Ebb Tide (#41)
by Michael R. Burch
Massive, gray, these leaden waves
bear their unchanging burden—
the sameness of each day to day
while the wind seems to struggle to say
something half-submerged planks at the mouth of the bay
might nuzzle limp seaweed to understand.
Now collapsing dull waves drain away
from the unenticing land;
shrieking gulls shadow fish through salt spray—
whitish streaks on a fogged silver mirror.
Sizzling lightning impresses its brand.
Unseen fingers scribble something in the wet sand.
Originally published by Southwest Review
I think "Ebb Tide" is one of my best poems and I rank it higher than Google. "Ebb Tide" is my second-most-popular poem on AllPoetry with a 9.75 rating and it has five stars at PoemHunter.
Indestructible, for Johnny Cash (#42)
by Michael R. Burch
What is a mountain, but stone?
Or a spire, but a trinket of steel?
Johnny Cash is gone,
black from his hair to his bootheels.
Can a man out-endure mountains’ stone
if his songs lift us closer to heaven?
Can the steel in his voice vibrate on
till his words are our manna and leaven?
Then sing, all you mountains of stone,
with the rasp of his voice, and the gravel.
Let the twang of thumbed steel lead us home
through these weary dark ways all men travel.
For what is a mountain, but stone?
Or a spire, but a trinket of steel?
Johnny Cash lives on—
black from his hair to his bootheels.
Originally published by Strong Verse then set to music by Mike Strand and recorded by Gary DesLaurier as Old Dog Daddy and the Dagnabits.
Piercing the Shell (#43)
by Michael R. Burch
If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we'll discover what the heart is for.
At the height of its popularity, "Piercing the Shell" had 1.4K Google results. However, due to its brevity, I can't argue too strongly with Google here.
In this Ordinary Swoon (#44)
by Michael R. Burch
In this ordinary swoon
as I pass from life to death,
I feel no heat from the cold, pale moon;
I feel no sympathy for breath.
Who I am and why I came,
I do not know; nor does it matter.
The end of every man’s the same
and every god’s as mad as a hatter.
I do not fear the letting go;
I only fear the clinging on
to hope when there’s no hope, although
I lift my face to the blazing sun
and feel the greater intensity
of the wilder inferno within me.
Leaf Fall (#45)
by Michael R. Burch
Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron—
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.
And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful—
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.
Once (#46)
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Once when her kisses were fire incarnate
and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame,
when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes,
leaving me listlessly sighing her name …
Once when her breasts were as pale, as beguiling,
as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist,
when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me
all the while as her lips did more wildly insist …
Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered
through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant,
I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing
that I vowed all my former vows to recant …
Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed—
this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed.
Distances (#47)
by Michael R. Burch
Moonbeams on water —
the reflected light
of a halcyon star
now drowning in night …
So your memories are.
Footprints on beaches
now flooding with water;
the small, broken ribcage
of some primitive slaughter …
So near, yet so far.
"Distances" is in the process of being set to music by the award-winning New Zealand composer David Hamilton. In the first stanza the "halcyon star" is the sun, which has dropped below the horizon and is thus "drowning in night." But its light strikes the moon, creating moonbeams which are reflected by the water. Sometimes memories seem that distant, that faint, that elusive. Footprints are being washed away, a heart is missing from its ribcage, and even things close at hand can seem infinitely beyond our reach. I rate this poem higher than Google. It has five stars at PoemHunter.
The Toast (#48)
by Michael R. Burch
For longings warmed by tepid suns
(brief lusts that animated clay),
for passions wilted at the bud
and skies grown desolate and gray,
for stars that fell from tinseled heights
and mountains bleak and scarred and lone,
for seas reflecting distant suns
and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown,
for waltzes ending in a hush,
for rhymes that fade as pages close,
for flames' exhausted, drifting ash,
and petals falling from the rose, …
I raise my cup before I drink,
saluting ghosts of loves long dead,
and silently propose a toast—
to joys set free, and those I fled.
Originally published by Contemporary Rhyme. This is one of my early poems, written around age 20. I rate this poem higher than Google.
Discrimination (#49)
by Michael R. Burch
The meter I had sought to find, perplexed,
was ripped from books of "verse" that read like prose.
I found it in sheet music, in long rows
of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks
of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed
half-centuries by archivists, unscanned.
I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed—
why should such tattered artistry be banned?
I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads,
the supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books
extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs …
A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks
are all I’ve found this late to sell to those
who’d classify free verse "expensive prose."
Originally published by The Chariton Review then later published by Trinacria where it was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. I rate this poem higher than Google.
Just Smile (#50)
by Michael R. Burch
We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy "boo-boo!," only two.
We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.
We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion.
O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries …
Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, "It’s me I see. Just me."
He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
Sex Hex (#51)
by Michael R. Burch
Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).
A question that sometimes drives me hazy:
am I or are the others crazy?
—Albert Einstein, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My rhyming paraphrase of an Albert Einstein quote at one time had 34K Google results and has been merchandised on t-shirts and coffee mugs. My tweet of the rhyme was retweeted by Pharrell Williams; it was then retweeted by Twitter users another 2.1K times. The rhyme has been incorrectly attributed to Einstein.
While you decline to cry,
high on the mountainside
a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My translation of "Plumegrass Wilts" is the first poem on the EnglishLiterature.net poem definition and example page, and the poem returned 619K Google results at its peak.
Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This translation had 1.1K Google results at its peak.
First They Came for the Muslims
by Michael R. Burch
after Martin Niemöller
First they came for the Muslims
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Muslim.
Then they came for the homosexuals
and I did not speak out
because I was not a homosexual.
Then they came for the feminists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a feminist.
Now when will they come for me
because I was too busy and too apathetic
to defend my sisters and brothers?
"First They Came for the Muslims" has been adopted by Amnesty International for its Words That Burn anthology, a free online resource for students and educators. According to Google the poem once appeared on a staggering 823K web pages. That's a lot of cutting and pasting! It is indeed an honor to have one of my poems published by such an outstanding organization as Amnesty International, one of the world's finest. Not only is the cause good―a stated goal is to teach students about human rights through poetry―but so far the poetry published seems quite good to me. My poem appears beneath the famous Holocaust poem that inspired it, "First They Came" by Martin Niemöller. Here's a bit of background information: Words That Burn is an online poetry anthology and human rights educational resource for students and teachers created by Amnesty International in partnership with The Poetry Hour. Amnesty International is the world’s largest human rights organization, with seven million supporters. Its new webpage has been designed to "enable young people to explore human rights through poetry whilst developing their voice and skills as poets." This exemplary resource was inspired by the poetry anthology Words that Burn, curated by Josephine Hart of The Poetry Hour, which in turn was inspired by Thomas Gray's observation that "Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn."
Less Heroic Couplets: Lance-a-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.
"Lance-a-Lot" has a 10.99 rating at AllPoetry, where it is one of my most popular poems.
Love Has a Southern Flavor
by Michael R. Burch
Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew,
ripe cantaloupe, the honeysuckle’s spout
we tilt to basking faces to breathe out
the ordinary, and inhale perfume …
Love’s Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines,
wild clematis, the gold-brocaded leaves
that will not keep their order in the trees,
unmentionables that peek from dancing lines …
Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights:
the constellations’ dying mysteries,
the fireflies that hum to light, each tree’s
resplendent autumn cape, a genteel sight …
Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet,
as decadent as the wet leaves at our feet.
"Love Has a Southern Flavor," also titled "Southern Flavored," is my fifth-most popular poem at AllPoetry. It was published by The Lyric, Contemporary Sonnet, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Setu (India), Victorian Violet Press, A Long Story Short, Glass Facets of Poetry, Docster, PS: It’s Poetry (anthology), Borderless Journal (Singapore), in a Czech translation by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava, and by Trinacria. Amusingly, this poem got me banned from the poetry forum Eratosphere, which I now call Erratic Sphere. When I posted the poem, I was instructed by various poetry experts not to use the word “love” in a love poem, and to avoid abstract language and the very mild and understated personification. When I pointed out that Erato was the abstract personification of love poetry, I was banned for life with no trial and no explanation!
Violets
by Michael R. Burch
Once, only once,
when the wind flicked your skirt
to an indiscreet height
and you laughed,
abruptly demure,
outblushing shocked violets:
suddenly,
I knew:
everything had changed
and as you braided your hair
into long bluish plaits
the shadows empurpled,
the dragonflies’
last darting feints
dissolving mid-air,
we watched the sun’s long glide
into evening,
knowing and unknowing.
O, how the illusions of love
await us in the commonplace
and rare
then haunt our small remainder of hours.
"Violets" has five stars at PoemHunter and was the title poem of my poetry collection Violets for Beth.
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
Options Underwater: The Song of the First Amphibian
by Michael R. Burch
“Evolution’s a Fishy Business!”
1.
Breathing underwater through antiquated gills,
I’m running out of options. I need to find fresh Air,
to seek some higher Purpose. No porpoise, I despair
to swim among anemones’ pink frills.
2.
My fins will make fine flippers, if only I can walk,
a little out of kilter, safe to the nearest rock’s
sweet, unmolested shelter. Each eye must grow a stalk,
to take in this green land on which it gawks.
3.
No predators have made it here, so I need not adapt.
Sun-sluggish, full, lethargic—I’ll take such nice long naps!
The highest form of life, that’s me! (Quite apt
to lie here chortling, calling fishes saps.)
4.
I woke to find life teeming all around—
mammals, insects, reptiles, loathsome birds.
And now I cringe at every sight and sound.
The water’s looking good! I look Absurd.
5.
The moral of my story’s this: don’t leap
wherever grass is greener. Backwards creep.
And never burn your bridges, till you’re sure
leapfrogging friends secures your Sinecure.
Originally published by Lighten Up Online
The Vulture
by Hilaire Belloc
The Vulture eats between his meals
And that's the reason why
He very, very rarely feels
As well as you and I.
His eye is dull, his head is bald,
His neck is growing thinner.
Oh! what a lesson for us all
To only eat at dinner!
The Guppy
by Ogden Nash
Whales have calves,
Cats have kittens,
Bears have cubs,
Bats have bittens,
Swans have cygnets,
Seals have puppies,
But guppies just have little guppies.
The People Upstairs
by Ogden Nash
The people upstairs all practise ballet
Their living room is a bowling alley
Their bedroom is full of conducted tours.
Their radio is louder than yours,
They celebrate week-ends all the week.
When they take a shower, your ceilings leak.
They try to get their parties to mix
By supplying their guests with Pogo sticks,
And when their fun at last abates,
They go to the bathroom on roller skates.
I might love the people upstairs more
If only they lived on another floor.
Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch
It's better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe's
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of
Exaggeration.
THE TROUBLE WITH GERANIUMS
by Mervyn Peake
The trouble with geraniums
is that they’re much too red!
The trouble with my toast is that
it’s far too full of bread.
The trouble with a diamond
is that it’s much too bright.
The same applies to fish and stars
and the electric light.
The troubles with the stars I see
lies in the way they fly.
The trouble with myself is all
self-centred in the eye.
The trouble with my looking-glass
is that it shows me, me;
there’s trouble in all sorts of things
where it should never be.
The Crocodile or, Public Decency
by A. E. Housman
Though some at my aversion smile,
I cannot love the crocodile.
Its conduct does not seem to me
Consistent with sincerity.
Where Nile, with beneficial flood,
Improves the desert sand to mud,
The infant child, its banks upon,
Will run about with nothing on.
The London County Council not
Being adjacent to the spot,
This is the consequence. Meanwhile,
What is that object in the Nile,
Which swallows water, chokes and spits?
It is the crocodile in fits.
'Oh infant! oh my country's shame!
Suppose a European came!
Picture his feelings, on his pure
Personally conducted tour!
The British Peer's averted look,
The mantling blush of Messrs. Cook!
Come, awful infant, come and be
Dressed, if nothing else, in me.'
Then disappears into the Nile
The infant, clad in crocodile,
And meekly yields his youthful breath
To darkness, decency, and death.
His mother, in the local dells,
Deplores him with Egyptian yells:
Her hieroglyphic howls are vain,
Nor will the lost return again.
The crocodile itself no less
Displays, but does not feel, distress,
And with its tears augments the Nile;
The false, amphibious crocodile.
'Is it that winds Etesian blow,
Or melts on Ethiop hills the snow?'
So, midst the inundated scene,
Inquire the floating fellaheen.
From Cairo's ramparts gazing far
The mild Khedive and stern Sirdar
Say, as they scan the watery plain,
'There goes that crocodile again.'
The copious tribute of its lids
Submerges half the pyramids,
And over all the Sphinx it flows,
Except her non-existent nose.
The Rolling English Road
by G. K. Chesterton
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.
His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.
My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.
Adventures Of Isabel
by Ogden Nash
Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.
A BRIEF TIMELINE OF NONSENSE VERSE
Nonsense verse got its name with the 1846 publication of Edward Lear’s A Book of Nonsense. However, the genre is much older.
Geoffrey Chaucer used the term "rym doggerel" in his 1387 "Tale of Sir Thopas."
John Skelton continued the doggerel tradition in his "Magnyfycence" (1519) and "Speke Parrot" (1521). His brand of humor became known as "skeltonics."
Edmund Spenser kept the nonsensical ball rolling with "Mother Hubbard's Tale" in 1590.
Shakespeare employed fools and "poor Tom" the Bedlamite in his plays and wrote nonsense verse like “Full Fathom Five.”
"To Market, To Market" was published in 1598, "If Wishes Were Horses" in 1628, and "Jack Sprat" in 1639.
Some of the older Mother Goose nursery rhymes date to around 1650.
Tom Thumb's Song Book, the first collection of British nursery rhymes, was published in 1744 and included poems like "Baa Baa Black Sheep," "Patty Cake" and "London Bridge."
Edward Lear published absurdist limericks and art in The Book of Nonsense in 1846.
Lewis Carroll followed with Alice's Adventures in Wonderland in 1865, Through the Looking Glass in 1872, and The Hunting of the Snark in 1876.
Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss was published in 1960, and Where the Wild Things Are in 1963. The rest, as they say, is humorous history!
Examples of nonsense verse in modern times include poems by Shel Silverstein, Spike Milligan, T. S. Eliot (especially the poems that became the musical "Cats"), A. E. Housman, John Lennon, Mervyn Peake, Christopher Isherwood, Wendy Cope, Eric Idle, Jack Prelutsky, Christian Morgenstern, Carolyn Wells, Ivor Cutler and Laura E. Richards.
Examples in popular music include "Yellow Submarine" and "I Am the Walrus" by the Beatles, "The Purple People Eater" by Sheb Wooley, "Monster Mash" by Bobby "Boris" Pickett, and the musical parodies of Weird Al Yankovic.
Examples in stand-up comedy include the very naughty adult nursery rhymes of Andrew Dice Clay.
Other nonsense verse of note…
FURTHER READING
"Full Fathom Five" by William Shakespeare
"The Mad Gardener's Song" by Lewis Carroll
"The Lobster Quadrille" by Lewis Carroll
The Complete Nonsense of Edward Lear
"The Dong with the Luminous Nose" by Edward Lear
"The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo" by Edward Lear
"The Jumblies" by Edward Lear
"How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear!" by Edward Lear
"The Pobble Who Has No Toes" by Edward Lear
"The Quangle Wangle's Hat" by Edward Lear
"Ballad of the Breadman" by Charles Causley
"The Lobster Quadrille" by Lewis Carroll
“Faithless Nelly Gray” by Thomas Hood
Silly Verse for Kids by Spike Milligan, including "On the Ning Nang Nong"
A Book of Nonsense by Mervyn Peake
A Nonsense Anthology by Carolyn Wells'
The Pocket Full of Boners by Dr. Seuss (1931)
Hejji by Dr. Seuss (1935)
Horton Hatches the Egg by Dr. Seuss (1940)
And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street by Dr. Seuss (1937)
If I Ran the Zoo by Dr. Seuss (1950)
Horton Hears a Who! by Dr. Seuss (1954)
If I Ran the Circus by Dr. Seuss (1956)
The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss (1957)
How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss (1957)
Yertle the Turtle by Dr. Seuss (1958)
The Cat in the Hat Comes Back by Dr. Seuss (1958)
Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss (1960)
The Lorax by Dr. Seuss (1971)
Oh, the Places You'll Go by Dr. Seuss (1990)
"The Great Panjandrum Himself" by Samuel Foote
"The Crocodile, or Public Decency" by A. E. Housman
"I Saw a Peacock" by Anonymous, as published in Quentin Blake's anthology
Magnyfycence by John Skelton
"Tom O'Bedlam's Song" by Anonymous
"Robyn Hudde in Bernsdale stode" by Anonymous, circa 1450
"The mone in the mornyng" by Anonymous, circa 1450
"The Madman's Song" by Anonymous, circa 1450
"Herkyn" by Anonymous, circa 1450
"Herkons" by Anonymous, circa 1450
"Song on Woman" by Anonymous, circa 1450
"The cricket and the greshope" by Anonymous, circa 1475
"My Lady went to Canterbury" by Anonymous, circa 1550
"I Sawe a Dog" by Anonymous, circa 1550
"Newes Newes Newes" by Anonymous, circa 1550
NAUGHTY NONSENSE VERSE
Some of the best limericks are "naughty" poems written by the greatest and most prolific of all poets, Anonymous.
(I caution children to stop reading at this point!)
There was a young man from Savannah
Who died in a curious manner:
He whittled a hole
In a telephone pole
And electrified his banana.
—Anonymous
There once was a hermit named Dave
Who kept a dead whore in his cave.
"I know it's a sin,"
He opined with a grin,
"But just think of the money I save!"
—Anonymous (I touched this one up slightly)
There was a young gal name of Sally
Who loved an occasional dally.
She sat on the lap
Of a well-endowed chap
Crying, "Gee, Dick, you're right up my alley!"
—Anonymous (I touched this one up slightly)
There once was a handyman, Kent,
Whose drill was decidedly bent.
To save himself trouble,
He put it in double
And while he was coming, he went.
—Anonymous (I touched this one up slightly)
There once was a girl who intended
To keep herself morally splendid
And ascend into Glory,
Which is not a bad story,
Except that that’s not how it ended.
—John Ciardi
There was a young cocksman from Ghent
Whose prick was so long that it bent.
To save himself trouble,
He stuck it in double,
Then rather than coming, he went.
—Anonymous (I touched this one up slightly)
There was a young man from St Kilda
Who wanted to bang a girl, Hilda.
He said that he could,
and he should and he would.
And he did, and he damn nearly killed her.
—attributed to Benny Hill
Said the queen to the king "I don't frown on
The fact that you always go down on
The page on the stairs,
But you'll give the boy airs
If you must do the job with your crown on!"
—W. H. Auden
As the poets have mournfully sung
Death comes to the innocent young,
To the rolling in money,
The screamingly funny,
And to the very well hung.
—W. H. Auden
There was a great Marxist named Lenin
Who did two or three million men in.
That’s a lot to have done in
But where he did one in
That grand Marxist Stalin did ten in.
—Robert Conquest
There was a young fellow called Shit,
A name he disliked quite a bit,
So he changed it to Shite,
A step in the right
Direction, one has to admit.
—Robert Conquest
Seven ages: first puking and mewling;
Then very pissed off with his schooling;
Then fucks; and then fights;
Then judging men’s rights;
Then sitting in slippers; then drooling.
—Robert Conquest
This one is written after the limerick that starts “There once was a miner named Dave” ...
There was an old hippie named Dan
who kept a dead whore in his van.
When asked, “Does she smell?”
He replied, “Yes, like hell!
That’s why I smoke pot all I can!”
—Michael R. Burch
A foolish young master named Bates
whacked off and was heard by his mates.
He started a fad:
now from Finland to Chad,
every damn fool masturbates.
—Michael R. Burch
A much-abused prostitute, Rose,
flushed her overfilled cooch with a hose.
Now I’d like to be clear:
there's no fine moral here ...
but where the priests went, nobody knows!
—Michael R. Burch
A provocative trollop, quite rude,
went swimming about in the nude
till a man in a punt
stuck his pole in, quite blunt,
and said, “Pardon me if I intrude!”
A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves sex, but in forms deemed quite shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she's no lady!)
—Michael R. Burch
While Titian was mixing rose madder,
His model reclined on a ladder.
Her position to Titian
Suggested coition,
So he leapt up the ladder and had 'er.
—Anonymous
There once was a man named O'Doul
Who found red spots dotting his tool.
His doctor (a cynic)
Ran him out of the clinic
Crying, "Wipe off that lipstick, you fool!"
—Anonymous (I touched this one up slightly)
There once was a lady of Totten
Whose tastes grew perverted and rotten.
She cared not for steaks,
Nor for pastries, nor cakes,
But lived solely on penis au gratin.
—Anonymous (I touched this one up slightly)
There was a sweet girl of Decatur
who set out to sea on a freighter.
She was screwed by the master
—an utter disaster—
but the crew all made up for it later.
—Isaac Asimov
A man called Percival Lee
Got up one night for a pee.
When he got to the loo
It was quarter to two,
And when he got back it was three.
—Spike Milligan
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
Frenched me a kiss;
I admonished her, "Miss,
you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
A pirate, the legend relates,
Was horsing around with some mates
When he slipped on a cutlass
Which rendered him nutless
And practically useless on dates.
—Anonymous (I touched this one up slightly)
Shotgun Bedding
by Michael R. Burch
A pedestrian pediatrician
set out on a dangerous mission;
though his child bride, Lolita,
was a sweet senorita,
her pa's shotgun cut off his emissions.
I have long been a fan of limericks about animals. Here are a few more of mine:
Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch
The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his bawdy, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!
The Platypus
by Michael R. Burch
The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not erotic.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?
The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or beaver.
The Sinister Snail
by Michael R. Burch
A sinister sinistral snail
went dextral, to no avail,
spent a week (here's a zinger)
as a right-winger,
but the leftist's now back in jail!
The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch
A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”
On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so horny it lofts her thus?
I need an artist or cartoonist to create an image of a male rhino lifting his prospective mate into the air during an abortive kiss. Any takers?
On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his huge horn deforms her esophagus?
The next version is a free verse limerick:
On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch
A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!
The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch
A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the cruel scorn
gals showed for his horn,
then lost it to poachers, sedated.
I read a long post
By Mr. M Burch
It gave my poor mind
Such a terrible lurch
I started on Monday
Didn’t finish til Sunday
Thank god
‘Cause I got to miss church
There you are, hi Michael!