The HyperTexts

Michael R. Burch: "Jessamyn's Song" and other Early Poems

I am (probably inordinately) proud that 57 poems I wrote in my teens have been been published by literary journals, and that seven of my teenage poems have been set to music by composers and/or translated into other languages. However, the poems herein include some of my unpublished earlier poems, and I think a few of them (possibly) merit publication. If you agree or disagree, please feel free to let me know in the comments.



"Jessamyn's Song" was the longest and most ambitious of my early poems. I started writing the poem around age 14 or 15. It was inspired by Claude Monet’s oil painting "The Walk, Woman with a Parasol," which I interpreted as a walk in a meadow or heather. The woman’s dress and captivating loveliness made me think of an impending wedding, with dances and other festivities. The boy made me think of a family. I gave the woman a name, Jessamyn, and wrote her story, thinking along these lines, as a high schooler. The opening lines were influenced by "Fern Hill" by the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, one of my boyhood favorites and still a favorite today. "Jessamyn's Song" was substantially complete by around age 16, my first long poem, but I was not happy with the longer poem, overall, and eventually published the closing stanza as an independent poem, "Leave Taking." I have touched up the longer poem here and there over the last half century, but it remains substantially the same as the original poem. 

Jessamyn's Song
by Michael R. Burch

16
There are meadows heathered with thoughts of you,
where the honeysuckle winds
in fragrant, tangled vines
down to the water's edge.

Through the wind-bent grass I watch time pass
slow with the dying day
on its lolling, rolling way ...
And I know you’ll soon be mine.

17
There are oak trees haggard and gnarled by Time
where the shrewd squirrel makes his lair,
sleeping through winters unaware
of the white commotion below.

By the waning sun I keep watch upon
the earth as she spins—so slow!—
and I know within
they're absolved from sin
who sleep beneath the snow.

They have no sin, and we sin not
although we sleep and dream in bliss
while others rage, and charge ... and die,
and all our nights’ elations miss.

For life is ours, and through our veins
it pulses with a tranquil flow,
though in others’ it may surge and froth
and carry passions to and fro.

18
By murmuring streams I sometimes dream
of whirling reels, of taut bows lancing,
when my partner’s the prettiest dancing,
and she is always you.

So let the meadows rest in peace,
and let the woodlands lie ...
Life’s the pulse in your heart and in mine—
let us not let it die.

19
By the windmill we have often kissed
as your clothing slipped,
exposing pale breasts and paler hips
to the naked glory of the sun.

Yes, my darling, I do love you
with all my wicked heart.
Promise that you'll be my bride
and these lips will never part
for any other’s.

20
There are daisies plaited through the fields
that make the valleys shine
(though the darker hawthorns wind
up to the highest ledge).

As the rising sun
                  blinks lazily on
the horizon’s eastern edge,
I watch the tangerine dawn
congeal to a brighter lime.

Oh, the season I love best is fall—
the trees coyly shedding their leaves, and all
creation watching, in thrall.

And you in your wedding dress, so calm,
seem less of this earth than the sky.

I expect you at any moment to
ascend through the brightening dimensionless blue
to softly go floating by—
a cloud or a pure-white butterfly.

21
There are rivers sparkling bright as spring
and others somber as the Nile,
but whether they may frown or smile,
none can match this brilliant stream
beside whose banks I lie and dream;
her waters, flowing swift, yet mild,
lull to sleep my new-born child!

22
There are mountains purple and pocked with Time,
home to goats and misfit trees ...
in lofty grandeur above vexed seas
they lift their haughty heads.

When the sun explodes over tonsured domes
and bright fountains splash in youthful ruin
against the strange antediluvian runes
of tales to this day untold ...

I taste with my eyes the dawn's harsh gold
and breathe the frigid mountain air,
drinking deeply, wondering where
the magic days of youth have flown.

23
There are forests aged and ripe with rain
that loom at the brink of the trout's blue home.
There deer go to feast of the frothy foam,
to lap the gurgling water.

In murky shallows, swamped with slime,
the largemouth bass now sleeps,
his muddy memories dark and deep,
safe 'neath the sodden loam.

And often I have wondered
how it must feel to sleep
for timeless ages, fathoms deep
within a winter dream.

26
By the window ledge where the candle begs
the night for light to live,
the deepening darkness gives
the heart good cause to shudder.
For there are curly, tousled heads
that know one use for bed
and not any other ...

“Goodnight father.”
“Goodnight mother.”
“Goodnight sister.”
“Goodnight brother.”
“Tomorrow new adventures
we surely shall discover!”

30
Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs
to waltz upon ecstatic winds
until they die.

But the barren and embittered trees,
lament the frolic of the leaves
and curse the bleak November sky.

Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight
before the fading autumn light,
I think that, perhaps, at last I may
have learned what it means to say

goodbye.

"All My Children" is the poem of mine that reminds me most of "Jessamyn's Song."

All My Children, circa age 14
by Michael R. Burch

It is May now, gentle May,
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon the blousy flowers
of this backyard cemet'ry,
upon my children as they sleep.

Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now,
with a mound of earth for a pillow;
his face as harsh as his monument,
but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows.

And there is Meg beside the spring
that sings her endless sleep.
Though it’s often said of stiller waters,
sometimes quicksilver streams run deep.

And there is Frankie, little Frankie,
tucked in safe at last,
a child who weakened and died too soon,
but whose heart was always steadfast.

And there is Mary by the bushes
where she hid so well,
her face as dark as their berries,
yet her eyes far darker still.

And Andy ... there is Andy,
sleeping in the clover,
a child who never saw the sun
so soon his life was over.

And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly!,
the prettiest of all ...
now she's put aside her dreams
of beaus kind, dark and tall
for dreams dreamed not at all.

It is May now, gentle May
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon this backyard garden,
on the graves of all my children ...

God, keep them safe until
I join them, as I will.
God, guard their tender dust
until I meet them, as I must.

This is a poem I had forgotten for nearly 50 years until another poet, Robert Lavett Smith, mentioned the poem "We Are Seven" by William Wordsworth. As I read Wordsworth's poem about a little girl who refused to admit that some of her siblings were missing, I remembered a poem I had written about a mother who clung just as tenaciously to the memory of her children. The line "It is May now, merry May" popped into my head and helped me locate the poem in my archives. I believe I wrote this poem around the same time as "Jessamyn's Song," which would place it around 1972-1973 at age 14-15, or thereabouts. I can tell it's one of my early poems because I was still allowing myself archaisms like "cemet'ry" which I would have avoided in my late teens. "All My Children" is admittedly a sentimental poem, but then we human beings are sentimental creatures. I believe the poem was influenced by Little Women, the first book that made me cry.

"Bible Libel" is the first poem I remember writing, sometime between age 11 and 13.

Bible Libel, circa age 11-13
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good
half the Bible
is libel.

I read the Bible from cover to cover at age 11, at the suggestion of my devout Christian parents. But I was more of a doubting Thomas. The so-called "word of God" left me aghast. How could anyone possibly claim the biblical god Yahweh/Jehovah was good, wise, loving, or just? I came up with this epigram to express my conclusions. I never submitted the poem for formal publication, but I have used it in online discussions, so it is "out there." And other people seem to have liked it enough to cut and paste the epigram, a LOT. At one time, according to Google results, the poem had gone viral and appeared on over 78K web pages. Those seem like pretty good results for a preteen poet. "Bible Libel" has been published online by Boloji (India), Nexus Myanmar (Burma), Kalemati (Iran), Pride Magazine (Nigeria), Brief Poems, Formal Verse, Idle Hearts, AZquotes (in its Top 17 Very Witty Quotes), Quote Master, and numerous other quote websites.

Happiness, circa age 13

Happiness is like a bubble,
What's fine now will soon be trouble...

"Happiness" was my first attempt at a longish poem. I have never published "Happiness" because it's not a very good poem, but I think I did show a good ear for meter from the very beginning.

Gone, circa age 14
by Michael R. Burch

Tonight, it is dark
and the stars do not shine.

A man who is gone
was a good friend of mine.

We were friends.

And the sky was the strangest shade of orange on gold
when I awoke to find him gone ...

"Gone" is actually gone, destroyed in a moment of frustration along with other poems I have not been able to recreate from memory. At some point between age 14 and 15, I destroyed all the poems I had written, out of frustration. I was able to recreate some of the poems from memory, but not all. "Gone" is the poem that haunts me the most. I have resurrected a few lines, but the rest appear to be gone completely. Another poem I regret destroying was titled "The Seven Stairs" and was inspired by one of my favorite rock songs, "Stairway to Heaven."

Smoke, circa age 14-15
by Michael R. Burch

The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well;
farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell
rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say
if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today.
The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today;
she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ...

"Smoke" appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. It also appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. It has since been published by The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Fullosia Press and Better Than Starbucks, and translated into Romanian and published by Petru Dimofte in Poezii. I had The Summer of '42 in mind when I wrote "Smoke." Ironically, I didn't see the movie until many years later (too young for an R-rated movie), but something about its trailer touched me. Am I the only poet who wrote a love poem for Jennifer O'Neil after seeing her fleeting image in a blurb? At least in that respect, I may be unique! In any case, the movie came out in 1971 or 1972, so I was probably around 14 or 15 when I wrote the poem. On an interesting note, one of my "youngest poems" was published by one of England's oldest publishing houses, Sampson Low, in the Lost Love issue of its Potcake Chapbooks series, edited by Robin Helweg-Larsen and illustrated by Alban Low.

Have I been too long at the fair?, circa age 14-15
by Michael R. Burch

Have I been too long at the fair?
The summer has faded,
the leaves have turned brown;
the Ferris wheel teeters ...
not up, yet not down.
Have I been too long at the fair?

This is one of my very earliest poems, written around age 14 or 15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. That was before my sophomore year of high school. I remember walking to the fairgrounds, stopping at a Dairy Queen along the way, and swimming at a public pool. But I believe the Ferris wheel only operated during the state fair. So my “educated guess” is that this poem was written during the state fair, or shortly thereafter. I remember watching people hanging suspended in mid-air, waiting for carnies to deposit them safely on terra firma again. In any case, this poem was published in my high school literary journal, the Lantern.

Bound, circa age 14-15
by Michael R. Burch

Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.

Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.

This poem also appeared in my high school journal. I seem to remember writing "Bound" around age 14 or 15. It was originally titled "Why Did I Go?" I have made slight changes but the poem is essentially the same as what I wrote in my early teens.

An Illusion, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee
and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold
when I awoke.

She came to me with the sound of falling leaves
and the scent of new-mown grass;
I held out my arms to her and she passed

into oblivion ...

This little dream-poem appeared in my high school journal, so I was no older than 18 when I wrote it, probably younger. I will guess around age 15-16. This feels like one of my early Romantic effusions.

Am I, circa age 14-15
by Michael R. Burch

Am I inconsequential;
do I matter not at all?
Am I just a snowflake,
to sparkle, then to fall?

Am I only chaff?
Of what use am I?
Am I just a flame,
to flicker, then to die?

Am I inadvertent?
For what reason am I here?
Am I just a ripple
in a pool that once was clear?

Am I insignificant?
Will time pass me by?
Am I just a flower,
to live one day, then die?

Am I unimportant?
Do I matter either way?
Or am I just an echo—
soon to fade away?

This seems like a pretty well-crafted poem for a teenage poet just getting started. I believe I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote it. The title is a reversal of the biblical "I Am."

Time, circa age 14-15
by Michael R. Burch

Time,
where have you gone?
What turned out so short,
had seemed like so long.

Time,
where have you flown?
What seemed like mere days
were years come and gone.

Time,
see what you've done:
for now I am old,
when once I was young.

Time,
do you even know why
your days, minutes, seconds
preternaturally fly?

This is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates," so I was probably around 14 or 15 when I wrote it. This seems like a pretty well-crafted poem for a teenage poet just getting started. My English teacher, Anne Meyers, wrote "I like this one" beside "Time" in my notebook.

By age 14, I had written four poems that would later be published — "Bible Libel," "Smoke," "Leave Taking" and "Playmates" — although "Bible Libel" was only published online, via cut-and-paste. "Leave Taking" was the final stanza of "Jessamyn's Song" while "Smoke" was the prunings of a longer poem. Thus, I consider "Playmates" to be my first full-fledged poem to be published.

Playmates, circa age 13-14
by Michael R. Burch

WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended ... far, far away ...
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.

Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.

Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden cookies were our only lusts!

Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate.

Hell, we seldom thought about the next day,
when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last.

Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die ...
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.

"Playmates" was originally published by The Lyric.

This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher, Anne Meyers, called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Happiness" was my first longish poem and "Playmates" was the second, at least as far as I can remember. I had written some shorter epigrams and puns, such as "Bible Libel," around the same time or a bit earlier, but at that time I wasn't really thinking of myself as a poet. "Happiness" and "Playmates" were the first longish poems I wrote after deciding to become a poet. There were intervening minor poems, but they were lost forever when I destroyed all my work in frustration at my lack of progress. Fortunately, I was able to recover my better poems from memory, other than "Gone" and "The Seven Stairs."

I wrote a sequel and companion poem to "Playmates" around age 19. The sequel has not been published, nor submitted to any journal that I can remember.

Playthings, circa age 19
by Michael R. Burch

a sequel to “Playmates”

There was a time, as though a long-forgotten dream remembered,
when you and I were playmates and the days were long;
then we were pirates stealing plaits of daisies
from trembling maidens fearing men so strong . . .

Our world was like an unplucked Rose unfolding,
and you and I were busy, then, as bees;
the nectar that we drank, it made us giddy;
each petal within reach seemed ours to seize . . .

But you were more the doer, I the dreamer,
so I wrote poems and dreamed a noble cause;
while you were linking logs, I met old Merlin
and took a dizzy ride to faery Oz . . .

But then you put aside all "silly" playthings;
with sunburned hands you built, from bricks and stone,
tall buildings, then a life, and then you married.
Now my fantasies, again, are all my own.

By age 15, I had written eight poems that I consider publishable: "Bible Libel," "Smoke," "Leave Taking," "Playmates," "Bound," "Am I," Time" and "Have I been too long at the fair?"

Sharon, circa age 15-17
by Michael R. Burch

apologies to Byron

I.
Flamingo-minted, pink, pink cheeks,
dark hair streaked with a lisp of dawnlight;
I have seen your shadow creep
through eerie webs spun out of twilight...

And I have longed to kiss your lips,
as sweet as the honeysuckle blooms;
to hold your pale albescent body,
more curvaceous than the moon...

II.
Black-haired beauty, like the night,
stay with me till morning's light.
In shadows, Sharon, become love
until the sun lights our alcove.

Red, red lips reveal white stone:
whet my own, my passions hone.
My all in all I give to you,
in our tongues’ exchange of dew.

Now all I ever ask of you
is: do with me what now you do.
In shadows, Sharon, shed your gown;
let all night’s walls come tumbling down.

III.

Now I will love you long, Sharon,
as long as longing may be.

The first and third sections are all I can remember of a “Sharon” poem that I destroyed in a fit of frustration about my writing, around age 15. The middle section was a separate poem written around age 17.

When last my love left me, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

The sun was a smoldering ember
when last my love left me;
the sunset cast curious shadows
over green arcs of the sea;
she spoke sad words, departing,
and teardrops drenched the trees.

This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, during my freshman year. I believe I wrote the original version in 1974, around age 15 to 16. It has not otherwise been published or submitted.

Canticle: an Aubade, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

Misty morning sunlight hails the dawning of new day;
dreams drift into drowsiness before they fade away.
Dew drops on the green grass speak of splendor in the sun;
the silence lauds a songstress and the skillful song she's sung.
Among the weeping willows the mist clings to the leaves;
and, laughing in the early light among the lemon trees,

there goes a brace of bees.

Dancing in the depthless blue like small, bright bits of steel,
the butterflies flock to the west and wander through dawn's fields.
Above the thoughtless traffic of the world, intent on play,
a flock of mallard geese in v's dash onward as they race.
And dozing in the daylight lies a new-born collie pup,
drinking in bright sunlight through small eyes still tightly shut.
And high above the meadows, blazing through the warming air,
a shaft of brilliant sunshine has started something there . . .

it looks like summer.

I distinctly remember writing this poem in Ms. Davenport’s class at Maplewood High School. I believe that was in 1974 at age 15-16, but I could be off by a year. This is another early poem that makes me think I had a good natural ear for meter. It’s not a great poem, but the music is pretty good for a beginner.

Tell me what i am, circa age 14-16
by Michael R. Burch

Tell me what i am,
for i have often wondered why i live.
Do u know?
Please, tell me so ...
drive away this darkness from within.

For my heart is black with sin
and i have often wondered why i am;
and my thoughts are lacking light,
though i have often sought what was right.

Now it is night;
please drive away this darkness from without,
for i doubt that i will see
the coming of the day
without ur help.

This heartfelt little poem appeared in my high school journal. I believe I wrote it around age 14 to 16 during the period I wrote related "I am/am I" poems such as "I Am Lonely," "Am I," "Time" and "Why Did I Go?" It remains unpublished and unsubmitted outside the Lantern.

Flying, circa age 15-17
by Michael R. Burch

i shall rise
and try the bloody wings of thought
ten thousand times
before i fly ...

and then i'll sleep
and waste ten thousand nights
before i dream;
but when at last ...

i soar the distant heights of undreamt skies
where never hawks nor eagles dared to go,
as i laugh among the meteors flashing by
somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ...

if i'm not told
i’m just a man,
then i shall know
just what I am.

This is one of my early "I Am" poems, written around age 15-17. According to my notes, I may have revised the poem later, in 1978, but if so the changes were minor because the poem remains very close to the original.

Listen, circa age 17-18
by Michael R. Burch

Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.

Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.

Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.

But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,

but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.

Published by Penny Dreadful, The HyperTexts, the Anthologise Committee and Nonsuch High School for Girls (Surrey, England)

I can’t remember exactly when I wrote the first version of this poem, but it was probably around age 17 or 18. I do remember liking the first three stanzas, but being unhappy with a longish, unwieldy ending. According to my notes, I revised the poem around 20 years later, in 1998, after a series of conversations with the poet-philosopher Richard Moore, who struck me as a sort of modern-day prophet crying in the wilderness. Richard made me think of my long-neglected poem, which I shortened and came to like. There is a much longer version of the poem that I published as Immanuel A. Michael in 2006. The longer version includes prophecies based on a series of dreams and visions that I had in my mid-to-late forties. I think this poem is a bit later than my other "I am" poems in this collection.

there is peace where i am going, circa age 15
by Michael R. Burch

lines written after watching a TV documentary about Woodstock

there is peace where i am going,
for i hasten to a land
that has never known the motion
of one windborne grain of sand;
that has never felt a tidal wave
nor seen a thunderstorm;
a land whose endless seasons
in their sameness are one.

there i will lay my burdens down
and feel their weight no more,
untouched beneath the unstirred sands
of a neverchanging shore,
where Time lies motionless in pools
of lost experience
and those who sleep, sleep unaware
of the future, past and present

(and where Love itself lies dormant,
unmoved by a silver crescent).

and when i lie asleep there,
with Death's footprints at my feet,
not a thing shall touch me,
save bland sand, lain like a sheet
to wrap me for my rest there
and to bind me, lest i dream,
mere clay again,
                          of strange domains
where cruel birth drew such harrowing screams.

yes, there is peace where i am going,
for i am bound to be
embalmed within the chill embrace
of this dim, unchanging sea ...
before too long; i sense it now,
and wait, expectantly,
to feel the listless touch
of Immortality.

This poem was written circa 1973, around age 15, after I watched a TV documentary about Woodstock. I think I probably owe the last two lines to Emily Dickinson.

I Am Lonely, circa age 16
by Michael R. Burch

God, I am lonely;
I am weak and sore afraid.
Now, just who am I to turn to
when my heart is torn in two?

God, I am lonely
and I cannot find a mate.
Now, just who am I to turn to
when the best friend that I’ve made

remains myself?

This poem appeared in my high school journal, so it was written no later than 1976. I believe it was written around 1974, circa age 16. This is another of my "I am/am I" poems. It remains unpublished outside the Lantern and unsubmitted.

Morning, circa age 14-17
by Michael R. Burch

It was morning
and the bright dew drenched the grasses
like tears the trembling lashes of my lover;
another day had come.

And everywhere the flowers
were turning to the sun,
just as the night before
I had turned to the one
for whom my heart yearned.

I believe I wrote this poem around age 14, then according to my notes revised it around age 17. In any case, it was published in my high school literary journal.

Burn, Ovid, circa age 15-24
by Michael R. Burch

“Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke

Sunday School,
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imagining watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit sex was the day’s “hot” topic
(how breathlessly I imagined hers)
as she taught us the perils of lust
fraught with inhibition.

I found her unaccountably beautiful,
rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue:
adultery, fornication, masturbation, sodomy.
Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush
of her unrouged cheeks,
by her pale lips
accented only by a slight quiver,
a trepidation.

What did those lustrous folds foretell
of our uncommon desire?
Why did she cross and uncross her legs
lovely and long in their taupe sheaths?
Why did her breasts rise pointedly,
as if indicating a direction?

“Come unto me,
(unto me),”
together, we sang,

cheek to breast,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,

my hands
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:

all night long,
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.

This poem is set at Faith Christian Academy in Goldsboro, NC, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes. Another poem, "Sex 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year. These poems have been more heavily edited than most of the poems in this collection.

Sex 101, circa age 15-24
by Michael R. Burch

That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...

Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...

Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...

The most unlikely coupling—

Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...

Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...

And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...

that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.

This companion poem to "Burn, Ovid" is also set at Faith Christian Academy, in 1972-1973.

Around age 15, I read a large number of western novels, especially those of Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour. I also became interested in songwriting and wrote several cowboy-themed songs. But I never learned to read or write music, so the lyrics remained poems.

Desperado, age 15
by Michael R. Burch

Have you ridden the fences
   of plains never-ending
as the wind sighed for lovers
   long past, or long gone?
Have you dreamt of a night
   with a pale moon ascending,
as Death stole a kiss
   from your lips before dawn?

If love is the gold that you seek,
   are you fleeing
for fear that its luster
   may blind you again?
Oh, desperate lover, I loved you
   not knowing
you would flee from my arms
   through this cold, driving rain

to wander alone where the stars do not shine,
having stolen the brightness from love — yours and mine.

This poem was inspired by the Eagles song “Desperado” and was written as a song in 1973 when I was 15 years old and in my songwriting phase. The Eagles song came out in April 1973 and I remember writing my song soon thereafter. My "Desperado" is close to a sonnet in form, but that was not intentional on my part. Unpublished.

Blue Cowboy, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

He slumps against the pommel,
a lonely, heartsick boy—
his horse his sole companion,
his gun his only toy
—and bitterly regretting
he ever came so far,
forsaking all home's comforts
to sleep beneath the stars,
he sighs.

He thinks about the lover
who awaits his kiss no more
till a tear anoints his lashes,
lit by uncaring stars.
He reaches to his aching breast,
withdraws a golden lock,
and kisses it in silence
as empty as his thoughts
while the wind sighs.

Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
between the earth and distant stars.
Do not fall; the scorpions
would leap to feast upon your heart.

Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand
for a drop of water warm and brown.
Dream of streams like silver seams
even as you gulp it down.

Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs
to hide the weakness in your soul.
Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
and wish that you were going home
as the stars sigh.

I wrote this poem during my songwriting phase, sometime between 1973 and 1976, but probably closer to 1973 at age 15. Unpublished.

Cowpoke, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

Sleep, old man...
your day has long since passed.
The endless plains,
cool midnight rains
and changeless ragged cows
alone remain
of what once was.

You cannot know
just how the Change
will rape the windswept plains
that you so loved...
and so sleep now,
O yes, sleep now...
before you see just how
the Change will come.

Sleep, old man...
your dreams are not our dreams.
The Rio Grande,
stark silver sands
and every obscure brand
of steed and cow
are sure to pass away
as you do now.

I believe this poem was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day. Unpublished.

Roll On, Red River, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

Roll on, Red River,
a cowboy has died.
Roll on; we lay him
down here at your side.
Carry him off
to the wild, raging sea...
Roll on, Red River,
and set his soul free.

Roll on, Red River,
roll on to the sea,
and sing him to sleep
as you roll up his dreams.
Sing him to sleep
with some old, lonesome song...
Now roll on, Red River,
and roll him along.

Roll on, Red River
and say a kind word
for an old surly cowhand
who died poor and hurt:
poor as a pauper
and hurt by his friends...
Roll on, Red River,
roll on to the end.

Roll on, Red River,
a cowboy has died.
Nobody loved him
and nobody cried.
A cowboy's not much,
but at least he's a man...
So roll on, Red River,
roll on and be damned.

I believe I wrote the original version of this poem around the time I wrote “Blue Cowboy” and “Cowpoke.” I had been reading Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour around this time, and I religiously watched the Kung Fu western TV series from 1972 to 1975. Unpublished.

impressions of a desert, circa age 16
by michael r. burch

a sulphuric
wasteland

seethes and glows

as from the sky
strange brightness flows

to heat,
congeal

oases vanish

or waver
,unreal,

even scorpions
languish

~~~~~~

somber mountains
shift and merge

bonedry oceans
at the verge

of the horizon
stretch, converge

the sky is poison

sand storms
surge

~~~~

lizards, whining,
curse the sky

squinting fire
from burnt eyes

slipping, squirming
rattlesnakes

quench awful
yearning

for moisture
and hate

~~~~~~

a flower
every thousand miles
rustles
crinkles
worn and dry

I wrote this poem during my “cummings period” around age 16 in 1974-1975 and revised it around 1976, according to my memory and notes.

The next poem was my first translation:

Elegy for a little girl, lost, circa age 16-17
by Michael R. Burch

... qui laetificat juventutem meam ...
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone
... requiescat in pace ...
May she rest in peace
... amen ...
Amen.

I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. Actually, I was sneak-reading one of my sister's steamy historical romance novels! I decided to incorporate the prayer into a poem, which I wrote in high school and revised later as an adult. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Latin Vulgate Bible (circa 385 AD). I can’t remember exactly when I read the novel or wrote the poem, but I believe it was around my sophomore or junior year of high school, age 16-17 or thereabouts. I revised the poem slightly in 2001 after realizing I had “misremembered” one of the words in the Latin prayer. I dedicated the poem to my mother, Christine Ena Burch, after her death, because she was always a little giggly girl at heart.

"Observance" is the first early poem that made me feel like a "real poet." I vividly remember writing it in the break room of the McDonald's where I worked as a high school student. I believe that was around age 16-17. I eventually pared a longer poem down to its best lines.

Observance, circa age 16-17
by Michael R. Burch

Here the hills are old and rolling
carefully in their old age;
on the horizon youthful mountains
bathe themselves in windblown fountains ...

By dying leaves and falling raindrops,
I have traced time's starts and stops,
and I have known the years to pass
almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops ...

For here the valleys fill with sunlight
to the brim, then empty again,
and it seems that only I notice
how the years flood out, and in ...

"Observance" was originally titled "Reckoning," a title I still like and may return to one day. As a young poet with high aspirations, I felt that "Infinity" and "Reckoning/Observance" were my two best poems, so I didn't publish them in my high school or college literary journals. I decided to hang onto them and use them to get my foot in the door elsewhere. And the plan worked pretty well. "Observance" was originally published by Nebo as "Reckoning." It was later published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Piedmont Literary Review, Verses, Romantics Quarterly, the anthology There is Something in the Autumn and Poetry Life & Times.

Infinity, circa age 18
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.

"Infinity" is the second poem that made me feel like a "real" poet. I remember reading the poem 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. This is another poem that was longer and got "pared down" to its best lines. I believe I wrote the original, longer version around 1976, at age 18. "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.

Styx, circa age 17-18
by Michael R. Burch

Black waters,
deep and dark and still ...
all men have passed this way,
or will.

"Styx" is another of the early poems that made me feel like a "real poet." And other poets and editors agreed, as "Styx" has been published by The Raintown Review, Blue Unicorn and Poezii, where it was translated into Romanian by Petru Dimofte. It was part of a longer poem called “Death” that I pared down to its best lines.

Davenport Tomorrow, circa age 17
by Michael R. Burch

Davenport tomorrow ...
all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun.

Now it is always summer
and the bees buzz in cesspools,
adapted to a new life.

There are no flowers,
but the weeds, being hardier,
have survived.

The small town has become
a city of millions;
there is no longer a sea,
only a huge sewer,
but the children don't mind.

They still study
rocks and stars,
but biology is a forgotten science ...
after all, what is life?

Davenport tomorrow ...
all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills
whispered wonders of long-ago.

I believe I wrote the first version  "Davenport Tomorrow" around age 17, but my memory of the poem is a bit hazy. I seem to remember a longer poem that I whittled down to size. This is one of my earliest poems that might be called "slant-rhymed free verse" with  life/survived/mind/science/life.

hymn to Apollo, circa age 16-17
by Michael R. Burch

something of sunshine attracted my i
as it lazed on the afternoon sky,
                                  golden,
splashed on the easel of god ...

what,
i thought,
could this elfin stuff be,
to, phantomlike,
                          flit
             tall
through      trees
on       days, such as these?
     fall

and the breeze
whispered a dirge
to the vanishing light;
enchoired with the evening, it sang;
its voice
enchantedly
rang
chanting “Night!” ...

till all the bright light
retired,
expired.

This poem appeared in my high school journal, so I was no older than 18 when I wrote it, probably younger. I will guess around 16 or 17. It was titled "Something of Sunshine" at the time. I wrote it under the influence of e. e. cummings. It remains unpublished and unsubmitted. The first half of the poem is largely the same but the second half is one of the most revised in this collection. The three closing lines were written around 45 years later, at age 61. There was a companion poem, also published in the Lantern, called "as Time walked by."

as Time walked by, circa age 16
by Michael R. Burch

yesterday i dreamed of u(s) again,
when
the air, like honey,
trickled through cushioning grasses,
softly flowing, pouring itself upon the masses
of dreaming flowers ...

then the sly impish Hours
were tentative, coy and shy
while the sky
swirled all its colors together,
giving pleasure to the appreciative eye
as Time walked by.

sunbright, ur smile
could fill the darkest night
with brilliant light
or thrill the dullest day
with ecstasy
so long as Time did not impede o(ur) way ...
until It did,
as It did.

for soon the summer hid
her sunny smile ...
the honeyed breaths of wind
became cold,
biting to the bone
as Time sped on,
fled from u(s)
to be gone
Forevermore.

this morning i awakened to the thought
that u were near
with honey hair and happy smile
lying sweetly by my side,
but then i remembered—u were gone,
that u'd been toppled long ago
like an orchid felled by snow
as the bloom called “us” sank slowly down to die
and Time roared by.

This poem appeared in my high school journal the Lantern in 1976 and was probably written around age 16 or thereabouts. It was written during my "cummings period," which started around 1974 after I discovered him in a high school English book. "As Time Walked By" remains unpublished and unsubmitted.

jasbryx, circa age 16
by michael r. burch

hidden deep inside of Me
is someone else, and he is free;
he laughs aloud, yet never is heard;
he flits about, as free as a bird,
so unlike Me

silently within MySelf,
he shouts aloud and shuns the shelf
s'm'OTHERS deem to be his place;
yet SOCIETY is not disgraced,
for he is never heard
above the spoken word

o, i am not as others are —
inhuman things devoid of fire,
for i am all i seem to be —
innocent, childlike, frolicsome, free —
and i raise no ire

no, he is not as others are —
keeping up with the JONESES, raising the BAR;
living his life like a lark free of CARE:
never brushing his TEETH, never parting his HAIR,
and he's no ONE's sire

yes, he is all he seems to be —
wild, rambunctious, innocent, free,
so unlike Me

I wrote this poem in high school, under the influence of e. e. cummings, sometime around 1974 at age 16 or thereabouts.

stones, circa age 16
by michael r. burch

i.
far below me lies a village
with its houses hewn from stone
and though Everyman who lives there
bravely claims he’s not alone,
i can tell him, yes u are!
for u cannot touch the stars
no matter how u try;
nor can u tame the mountain,
nor appease the darkening sky.

ii.
and late at night
their flinty fires blazing cannot warm their stony hearts;
though the villagers “believe” (in what?)
the terror-fear departs
them only at mid-day
for they fear what Others say
when their walls have shut them in.

iii.
and do they sin?
who am i to say?
most stones are shades of gray;
what does it matter, anyway?

iv.
oh, i think that living is not easy
and that dying is not hard ...
as the stars above wink, meaningless,
so they are;
so we all are.

v.
a legion without sound
in dusky darkness drawing down
to settle on the town,
the Night is like a stone —
hard and dark and rolling on,
hard and dark and rolling on.



i (dedicated to u), circa age 15-16
by michael r. burch

i.

i move within myself
i see beyond the sky
and fathom with full certainty:
this lifes a lethal lie

my teachers try to tell me
that they know more than i
(and well they may
but do they know
shrewd TIME is slipping by
and leaving us all to die?)

i shout within myself
i stand up to be seen
but only my eyes
watch as i rise
and i am left between
the nightmare of “REALITY”
and sleeps soothing scenes
and both are only dreams

i cry out to my “friends”
but none of them can hear
i weep in dark frustration
but they swim beyond my tears
i reach out to assist them
but they cannot find my hand
they all believe in “GOD”
yet all of them are damned

come, my self, come with me
move within your shell
cast aside ur “enlightenment”
and let us leave this living hell

ii.

i watch the maidens play
their fickle games of love
and if this is what
life is of
then i have had enough

all my teachers tell me
to con-form to SOCIETY
yet none of them will venture
how (false) it came to be
this gaud, SOCIETY

i watch the maidens play
and though i want them much
i know the illusion of their purity
would shatter at my touch
leaving annihilated truth
to be pieced together to dispel
the lies that accompany youth

i watch the maidens play
and know that what i want
i cannot take because
then it would be gone

iii.

i watch the lovely maidens
i search their sightless eyes
i find that only darkness
lies behind each guise

i try to touch their feelings
but they have been replaced
by intelligence and manners
and tact and social grace

i want to make them love me
but they cannot love themselves
and though they seek love desperately
and care for little else
they stand little chance
of much more than romance
for a few days

i try to friend the men
but they have even less
for they want nothing more
than whatever seems “the best”
their hollow, burnt-out eyes
reveal: their souls have flown
and all that loss has left
is a strange, sad fear of debt
and a love for things of gold

iv.

ive never seen a day break
but ive seen a life shatter
it was mine
and i suppose it still is:
all ten thousand pieces

id.

id like to put it together
(someONE please tell me how!)
for i am out of the glue
called u
that held my life together

i.e.

and i wish that u
and i were thru
but whatever u do
dont say that we are!

I wrote this poem after discovering the poetry of e. e. cummings while reading independently in high school. My “cummings period” started around 1974 at age 15-16. I believe this poem was the first of its genre. I seem to remember working on it my sophomore and junior years, making mostly minor revisions in 1975.

Will There Be Starlight, circa age 18-19
by Michael R. Burch

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?

If I remember correctly, I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year in high school, around age 18, then forgot about it for 15 years until I met my future wife Beth and she reminded me of the poem’s mysterious enchantress. I dedicated the poem to her on September 21, 1991, the same day I wrote "Seasons, for Beth." Since then "Will There Be Starlight" has been published by The Chained Muse, Famous Poets and Poems, Grassroots Poetry, Inspirational Stories, Jenion, Poetry Webring, Starlight Archives, TALESetc, The Word (UK) and Writ in Water. David Hamilton, an award-winning New Zealand composer, has set the lyrics to music. There should also be a spoken-word version performed by David B. Gosselin someday soon.

Moon Lake, circa age 18
by Michael R. Burch

Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark ...
Is it true?
    Is it true?
        Is it true?

Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?

Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
     Have you heard?
         Have you heard?

I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, along with its companion poem "Tomb Lake." I think the questions are interesting. Do all lovers love first in the dark? Is love an oration, or is it a word? David Hamilton has set the lyrics to music and the song has been performed by one of Australia's best choirs, Choralation.

Tomb Lake, circa age 18
by Michael R. Burch

Go down to the valley
   where mockingbirds cry,
      alone, ever lonely . . .
         yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
  you never shall wake.
      Go down to the valley;
         go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
   of souls such as yours —
      mad souls without meaning,
         frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
   reserved for the dead.
      They lie in her shallows
         and sleep in her bed.

I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they have similar "staircase" indention styles. "Tomb Lake" remains unpublished and unsubmitted.

Heaven Bent, circa age 18
by Michael R. Burch

This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
But I’m upwardly mobile. How the hell can I know?
I can only go up; I’m already below!

Easter, in Jerusalem, circa age 16-18
by Michael R. Burch

The streets are hushed from fervent song,
for strange lights fill the sky tonight.
A slow mist creeps
up and down the streets
and a star has vanished that once burned bright.
Oh Bethlehem, Bethlehem,
who tends your flocks tonight?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
a Shepherd calls
through the markets and the cattle stalls,
but a fiery sentinel has passed from sight.

Golgotha shudders uneasily,
then wearily settles to sleep again,
and I wonder how they dream
who beat him till he screamed,
"Father, forgive them!"
Ah Nazareth, Nazareth,
now sunken deep into dark sleep,
do you heed His plea
as demons flee,
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep."

The temple trembles violently,
a veil lies ripped in two,
and a good man lies
on a mountainside
whose heart was shattered too.
Galilee, oh Galilee,
do your waters pulse and froth?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
the waters creep
to form a starlit cross.

This poem was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977-1978, along with another poem, "A Pledge for Ignorance." It also appeared in a folder of poems I submitted to a poetry contest after my sophomore year in college.

Pilgrim Mountain, circa age 16-18
by Michael R. Burch

I have come to Pilgrim Mountain
to eat icicles and to bathe in the snow.
Do not ask me why I have done this,
for I do not know . . .
but I had a vision of the end of time
and I feared for my soul.

On Pilgrim Mountain the rivers shriek
as they rush toward the valleys, and the rocks
creak and groan in their misery,
for they comprehend they're prey to
night and day,
and ten thousand other fallacies.

Sunlight shatters the stone,
but midnight mends it again
with darkness and a cooling flow.
This is no place for men,
and I know this, but I know
that that which has been must somehow be again.

Now here on Pilgrim Mountain
I shall gouge my eyes with stone
and tear out all my hair;
and though I die alone,
I shall not care . . .

for the night will still roll on
above my weary bones
and these sun-split, shattered stones
now of late become their home
here, on Pilgrim Mountain.

I believe this poem was originally written around 1974 at age 16 or thereabouts. According to my notes, it was modified in 1978, then again in 1983. However, the poem remains very close to the original. I seem to remember writing this poem in Mr. Purcell’s history trailer.

These Hallowed Halls, age 18
by Michael R. Burch
a young Romantic Poet mourns the passing of an age ...

I.

A final stereo fades into silence
and now there is seldom a murmur
to trouble the slumber
of these ancient halls.

I stand by a window where others have watched
the passage of time alone,
not untouched,
and I am as they were—
                                       unsure,
for the days
stretch out ahead,
a bewildering maze.

II.

Ah, faithless lover—
that I had never touched your breast,
nor felt the stirrings of my heart,
which until that moment had peacefully slept.

For now I have known the exhilaration
of a heart having leapt from the pinnacle of love,
and the result of each such infatuation—
the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above.

III.

A solitary clock chimes the hour
from far above the campus,
but my peers,
returning from their dances,
heed it not.

And so it is
that we seldom gauge Time’s speed
because He moves so unobtrusively
about His task.

Still, when at last
we reckon His mark upon our lives,
we may well be surprised
at His thoroughness.

IV.

Ungentle maiden—
when Time has etched His little lines
so carelessly across your brow,
perhaps I will love you less than now.

And when cruel Time has stolen
your youth, as He certainly shall in course,
perhaps you will wish you had taken me
along with my broken heart,
even as He will take you with yours.

V.

A measureless rhythm rules the night—
few have heard it,
but I have shared it,
and its secret is mine.

To put it into words
is as to extract the sweetness from honey
and must be done as gently
as a butterfly cleans its wings.

But when it is captured, it is gone again;
its usefulness is only
that it lulls to sleep.

VI.

So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night,
to the moans of the moonlit hills
that groan as I do, yet somehow sleep
through the nightjar’s cryptic trills.

But I will not sleep this night, nor any ...
how can I, when my dreams
are always of your perfect face
ringed in whorls of fretted lace,
and a tear upon your pillowcase?

VII.

If I had been born when knights roamed the earth
and mad kings ruled strange lands,
I might have turned to the ministry,
to the solitude of a monastery.

But there are no monks or hermits today—
theirs is a lost occupation
carried on, if at all,
merely for sake of tradition.

For today man abhors solitude—
he craves companions, song and drink,
seldom seeking a quiet moment,
to sit alone by himself, to think.

VIII.

And so I cannot shut myself
off from the rest of the world,
to spend my days in philosophy
and my nights in tears of self-sympathy.

No, I must continue as best I can,
and learn to keep my thoughts away
from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth,
centuries past though lost but a day.

IX.

Yes, I must discipline myself
and adjust to these lackluster days
when men display no chivalry
and romance is the "old-fashioned" way.

X.

A single stereo flares into song
and the first faint light of morning
has pierced the sky's black awning
once again.

XI.

This is a sacred place,
for those who leave,
leave better than they came.

But those who stay, while they are here,
add, with their sleepless nights and tears,
quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls
of these hallowed halls.

I wrote this poem as a college freshman, age 18, watching my peers return to their dorms from a hard night of partying during rush week. It was probably the first poem I wrote as a college student.

In the Whispering Night, circa age 18-19
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
while 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 famished 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.

Published in Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly and Poetry Life & Times. This is a poem I wrote for my favorite college English teacher, George King, about poetic kinship, brotherhood and romantic flights of fancy.

In the Whispering Night (II)
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.

In the whispering night, when the mockingbird calls
while denuded vines barely cling to stone walls,
as the red-rocked rivers rush on to the sea,
     like a bright Goddess calling
     a meteor falling
may flare like desire through skeletal trees.

If you look to the east, you will see a reminder
of days that broke warmer and nights that fell kinder;
but you and I were not meant for this life,
     a life of illusions
     and painful delusions:
a life without meaning—unless it is life.

So turn from the east and look to the west,
to the stars—argent fire ablaze at God's breast—
but there you'll find nothing but dreams of lost days:
    days lost forever,
    departed, and never,
oh never, oh never shall they be regained.

So turn from those heavens—night’s pale host of stars—
to these scarred pitted mountains, these wild grotesque tors
which—looming in darkness—obscure lustrous seas ...
     We are men, we must sing
     till enchanted vales ring;
we are men; though we wither, our spirits soar free.

This is the original version of "In the Whispering Night" and one of my most Romantic poems, if not the most Romantic.

Poetry, circa age 19
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry, I found you
where at last they chained and bound you;
with devices all around you
to torture and confound you,
I found you—shivering, bare.

They had shorn your raven hair
and gouged out both your eyes
which, once cerulean as Gogh's skies,
had leapt at dawn to wild surmise
of what was waiting there.

Your back was bent with untold care;
there savage brands had left cruel scars
as though the wounds of countless wars;
your bones were broken with the force
with which they'd lashed your flesh so fair.

You once were loveliest of all.
So many nights you held in thrall
a scrawny lad who heard your call
from where dawn’s milling showers fall—
pale meteors through sapphire air.

I learned the eagerness of youth
to temper for a lover’s touch;
I felt you, tremulant, reprove
each time I fumbled over-much.
Your merest word became my prayer.

You took me gently by the hand
and led my steps from child to man;
now I look back, remember when
you shone, and cannot understand
why now, tonight, you bear their brand.

                     ***

I will take and cradle you in my arms,
remindful of the gentle charms
you showed me once, of yore;
and I will lead you from your cell tonight
back into that incandescent light
which flows out of the core
of a sun whose robes you wore.
And I will wash your feet with tears
for all those blissful years ...
my love, whom I adore.

I consider "Poetry" to be my Ars Poetica. In this poem I profess to be Poetry's lover and disciple. Of course such things are no longer allowed in respectable poetic circles. But then ... why be a conformist? However, the poem has been misinterpreted as the poet claiming to be Poetry's "savior." The poet never claims to be a savior or hero. The poem only says that when Poetry is finally freed, in some unspecified way, the poet will be there to take her hand and watch her glory be re-revealed to the world. The poet expresses love for Poetry, and loyalty and gratitude, but never claims to have done anything himself. This is a poem of love, compassion and reverence. Poetry is the Messiah, not the poet. The poet washes her feet with his tears, like Mary Magdalene.

I believe I wrote the first version of "Poetry" in my late teens, probably around 1977. I know from my notes, which I unfortunately didn't start dating until later in my career, that I went through a number of versions, some much longer than the final version, and didn't submit the poem for publication until 1998. It was published by The Lyric in 2001, nearly a quarter century after the first version was written. I remember The Lyric having a line limit of something like 40 to 48 lines, and because "Poetry" was initially much longer, I had to spend quite a bit of time paring it down to its best lines.

This is the longer version of "Poetry" written around age 19...

Poetry
by Michael R. Burch

I.

Poetry, I found you
where at last they chained and bound you;
with devices all around you
to torture and confound you,
I found you—shivering, bare.

They had shorn your raven hair
and taken both your eyes,
which, once cerulean as Gogh’s skies,
had leapt at dawn to wild surmise
of what was waiting there.

Your back was bent with untold care;
there savage brands had left cruel scars
as though the wounds of countless wars;
your bones were broken with the force
with which they'd lashed your flesh so fair.

Oh, Poetry, they left you
bent, broken and bereft; you,
once so passionate, knew
such shame that night they ravished you
and pinned you, writhing, to that wall.

Oh Poetry, they raped you!
They taunted and they aped you!
They ogled and they gaped at you!
How could such shame befall you,
who once were loveliest of all?

II.

You once were loveliest of all.
So many nights you held in thrall
a scrawny lad who heard your call
from where dawn’s milling showers fall—
pale meteors through sapphire air.

Pale meteors as brief and rare
as morning's sunlight in your hair,
as the dark abundance of your hair,
and all the want engendered there.

You taught me sonnets as a prayer
and showed me passion everywhere.
You helped me love and learn to care;
you gave me wings, wild winds to dare.

III.

I learned the eagerness of youth
to temper for a lover’s touch;
I felt you, tremulant, reprove
each time I fumbled over-much.
Your merest word became my prayer.

You took me gently by the hand
and led my steps—from child to man;
now I look back, remember when
you shone, and cannot understand
why now, tonight, you bear their brand.

IV.

Oh, Poetry, we lost you
when they hailed you to accost you;
in a hoar of ice and frost you
became their whore; they tossed you
in a cell devoid and bare!

V.

Now, your weeping, eyeless sockets,
exposed, blood-seeping gore,
remind me of a Goddess
once ravaged long before . . .

VI.

I will take you and cradle you in my arms
remindful of the gentle charms
you showed me once, of yore,

and I will lead you from your cell tonight
back into that incandescent light
which flows out of the core

of a sun whose robes you wore.
And I will wash your feet with tears
for all those blissful years,

my love, whom I adore.

VII.

Who are these men, who ravaged you,
who took your eyes and savaged you,
who left you worn and haggard, who

destroyed your voice so none could hear
loved words that once drew all men near?
They took you for a single tear,

so they could, then, describe its trace
down sagging cheeks and wasted face
to die at last in tattered lace.

They took your voice, which all men knew,
which Celts and Hebrews held as true,
which shook the earth and heavens blue;

they took your voice and claimed it theirs,
unmindful of your whispered prayers
by which men mounted heaven’s stairs.

They stilled your voice, then croaked a poem
with images as weak as foam
dissolving in some starless gloam

their eyes perceived, somehow, as light.
Their words, a parasitic blight,
consumed the sun and left bleak night.

And men who loved true Poetry
then turned their backs regretfully
to gaze out, where, across the sea,

the bright Sun set, to nevermore rise;
the bright Redeemer of the skies
withdrew Her face to angels' sighs.

And poets, ineffectual,
self-serving, "intellectual,"
admiring the delectable

pale images their cold hearts craved,
defamed the Art they claimed they’d “saved”
by “magic” as they vaguely raved . . .

but none was there, in truth, to hear.
All truthful words, insightful, clear,
were lost, as madding year fled year.

VIII.

Once Celtic warriors, bold,
with braided manes of red and gold,
were valued for the tales they told

in poetry — as much, or more,
as for stout-hearted deeds at war.
Their golden torcs, their stresses, four,

were standards which they proudly bore;
and even kings would kneel before
the satires of a poet’s lore.

When Cuchulain would dance and sing,
in service to his countrymen,
the lasses heard his verses ring

and, wistful, sighed to hear his voice;
and well the damsels might rejoice,
for he was every maiden’s choice.

Where are such singers vaunted now?
Do cads before such poets cow

and fear the thunder of their words?
Who quails before pale Latin verbs

and each limp, bloated, docile noun?
Oh, where are men who reap renown?

IX.

Though Frost once spoke of Her as foam,
yet still beneath’s a sea of meaning:
a sea which is forever home
to schools of siren-like mermaids preening.

Though some may deem Her Yeats's air,
if She is, how blessedly rare
Her fragrant breath. For none compare,
not while we breathe, not while we dare

inhale Her; or if She's mere earth —
God-Mother to all given birth,
then She has taught us well the worth
of days, or if She leaves the hearth

as sacred fire, blazing higher
— the very aspect of desire —
then may I, dying, be Her pyre
and be reborn within Her fire.

Is She the Phoenix long foretold,
to rise in ages new, and old,
with hair of jet and wings of gold,
whom puny men dare not behold?

Oh, that She were, that She might come
to be the bold rebirth of Sun
that set as though the day were done,
as though the race were lost, not won.

And if She is, then let them flee —
these men who raped True Poetry,
who took from Her Her clarity,
Her glory and vitality,

who stole Her pealing voice of thunder,
Her baleful myths and tales of wonder.
They thought of only Grecian plunder,
Latin sepulchers, and under

the weight of words they thought to drown Her,
with chains and torture to confound Her,
with surreal images to hound Her,
with clashing symbols to astound Her . . .

X.

Will Poetry be resurrected
by men who love Her — rise, protected?

Be given back Her words of power?
Shown passion in a secret hour?

Will we return Her fire, Her truth?
Will She reward some callow youth

who loves Her for Her raven hair,
Her eyes’ cerulean allure,

Her notes of music wild and pure,
so magical they must endure?

Will She be once again the lover
who bids us all around Her hover,

importuning for a kiss?
Oh, sweet Christ, if only this

were to be, then I would claim Her,
Poetry, as my Redeemer.

FOOTNOTES

Gogh's skies: Vincent Van Gogh's famous The Starry Night painting.

The raped and ravished Goddess is Philomela, who lost her tongue and ability to speak, but became a nightingale, which goes along with Poetry as the Phoenix later in the poem. In my poem she is also blinded, ironically by Imagists and other theorists.

and pinned you, writhing, to that wall: The poet in "Prufrock."

I will wash your feet with tears: As Mary Magdalene did for Jesus, disciple to Messiah. Readers have misinterpreted this poem as the poet claiming to be the savior of Poetry, but it's the other way around. The poet never claims that he will save Poetry, but only that he will be faithful to her until she is restored to her proper position through some unspecified means.

pale Latin verbs: The revival of English poetry that began with Thomas Chatterton and the Romantics who followed his lead had much to do with a return to the more virile, earthy Anglo-Saxon tongue.

siren-like mermaids: Elotian mermaids at the end of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

Yeats's air: William Butler Yeats said, "I made it out of a mouthful of air."

blazing higher: Both scorching and as in "blazing a trail."

Her pealing voice: Both powerful and appealing.

to drown her: The poets complains about aspects of modernism and postmodernism that have contributed to Poetry's reduced state: over-reliance on imagery, incoherence ("clashing symbols"), chains of irrational rules, etc.

so magical: What first attracted me to poetry as a boy was its magic.

my Redeemer: Keats, Shelley and Wallace Stevens saw Poetry as superior to and a replacement for religion. Swinburne lamented everyone going after the "pale Galilean."

Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 Refuted, circa age 18
by Michael R. Burch

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130

Seas that sparkle in the sun
without its light would have no beauty;
but the light within your eyes
is theirs alone; it owes no duty.
Whose winsome flame, not half so bright,
is meant for me, and brings delight.

Coral formed beneath the sea,
though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;
while your lips, not half so red,
just touching mine, at once inflame me.
Whose scorching flames mild lips arouse
fathomless oceans fail to douse.

Bright roses’ brief affairs, declared
when winter comes, will wither quickly.
Your cheeks, though paler when compared
with them?—more lasting, never prickly.
Whose tender cheeks, so enchantingly warm,
far vaster treasures, harbor no thorns.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly

This was my first sonnet, written in my teens after I discovered Shakespeare's "Sonnet 130." At the time I didn't know the rules of the sonnet form, so mine is a bit unconventional. I think it is not bad for the first attempt of a teen poet. I remember writing this poem in my head on the way back to my dorm from a freshman English class. I would have been 18 or 19 at the time.

The Toast, circa age 18-19
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

According to my notes, this poem was filed in 1977, meaning that I wrote it around age 19 or earlier. This was one of my earliest-written "professional" poems: I earned a whopping five dollars! But that publication came many years after I wrote the poem. I had never been thrilled with the opening stanza and rewrote it after the initial publication by Contemporary Rhyme. But the rest of the poem is largely the same.

Something, circa age 18-19
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 denial has swept into a corner, where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

This was the first poem that I wrote that didn't rhyme. I believe I wrote it in 1976 or 1977, which would have made me around 18-19 at the time. The poem came to me "from blue nothing" (to borrow a phrase from my friend the Maltese poet Joe Ruggier). Years later, I dedicated the poem to the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba. It has been published by There is Something in the Autumn (anthology), The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Setu (India), FreeXpression (Australia), Life and Legends, Poetry Super Highway, Poet’s Corner, Promosaik (Germany), Better Than Starbucks and The Chained Muse; it has also been used in numerous Holocaust projects; translated into Romanian by Petru Dimofte; translated into Turkish by Nurgül Yayman; turned into a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong; and used by Windsor Jewish Community Centre during a candle-lighting ceremony.

Floating/Entanglements, circa age 19
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."

Shock, circa age 19
by Michael R. Burch

It was early in the morning of the forming of my soul,
in the dawning of desire, with passion at first bloom,
with lightning splitting heaven to thunder's blasting roll
and a sense of welling fire and, perhaps, impending doom—
that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high
for shelter from the chaos of the restless, driving rain ...
and the voice I heard replying from a rift of bleeding sky
was mine, I'm sure, and, furthermore, was certainly insane.

Ince St. Child, circa age 19
by Michael R. Burch

When she was a child
     in a dark forest of fear,
          imagination cast its strange light
               into secret places,
               scattering traces
           of illumination so bright,
     years later, she could still find them there,
their light undefiled.

When she was young,
     the shafted light of her dreams
          shone on her uplifted face
               as she prayed ...
               though she strayed
          into a night fallen like woven lace
     shrouding the forest of screams,
her faith led her home.

Now she is old
     and the light that was flame
          is a slow-dying ember ...
               what she felt then
               she would explain;
          she would if she could only remember
     that forest of shame,
faith beaten like gold.

This was an unusual poem that I wrote in my late teens, and it took me some time to figure out who the old woman was. She was a victim of childhood incest, hence the title I eventually came up with. Published by Piedmont Literary Review, Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly and Poetry Life & Times.

Mare Clausum, circa age 19
by Michael R. Burch

These are the narrows of my soul—
dark waters pierced by eerie, haunting screams.
And these uncharted islands bleakly home
wild nightmares and deep, strange, forbidding dreams.

Please don’t think to find pearls’ pale, unearthly glow
within its shoals, nor corals in its reefs.
For, though you seek to salvage Love, I know
that vessel lists, and night brings no relief.

Pause here, and look, and know that all is lost;
then turn, and go; let salt consume, and rust.
This sea is not for sailors, but the damned
who lingered long past morning, till they learned

why it is named:
Mare Clausum.

Originally published by Penny Dreadful

Mare Clausum is Latin for "Closed Sea." I believe this poem was written around age 19. This one has been changed more than most of the poems on this page, over the years. However, the poem remains essentially the same in meaning and the ending lines have survived unchanged. I seem to remember the poem being inspired by merely reading the term Mare Clausum somewhere and finding it eerie, haunting and a bit chilling. Over the years, I tried to find words and images with a similar eerie, haunting, chilling feel.

Nevermore!, circa age 19
by Michael R. Burch

Nevermore! O, nevermore
shall the haunts of the sea—
the swollen tide pools
and the dark, deserted shore—
mark her passing again.

And the salivating sea
shall never kiss her lips
nor caress her breasts and hips
as she dreamt it did before,
once, lost within the uproar.

The waves will never rape her,
nor take her at their leisure;
the sea gulls shall not have her,
nor could she give them pleasure ...
She sleeps forevermore.

She sleeps forevermore,
a virgin save to me
and her other lover,
who lurks now, safely covered
by the restless, surging sea.

And, yes, they sleep together,
but never in that way!
For the sea has stripped and shorn
the one I once adored,
and washed her flesh away.

He does not stroke her honey hair,
for she is bald, bald to the bone!
And how it fills my heart with glee
to hear them sometimes cursing me
out of the depths of the demon sea ...

their skeletal love—impossibility!

This is one of my Poe-like creations, written around age 19. I think the poem has an interesting ending, since the male skeleton is missing an important "member."

R.I.P., circa age 19
by Michael R. Burch

When I am lain to rest
and my soul is no longer intact,
but dissolving, like a sunset
diminishing to the west ...

and when at last
before His throne my past
is put to test
and the demons and the Beast

await to feast
on any morsel downward cast,
while the vapors of impermanence
cling, smelling of damask ...

then let me go, and do not weep
if I am left to sleep,
to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps,
only a little longer and more deep.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly. This is a poem from my "Romantic Period" that was written in my late teens. I will guess around 1977 at age 19.

Love Unfolded Like a Flower, circa age 19
by Michael R. Burch

for Christy

Love unfolded
like a flower;
Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky.
I came to know you
and to trust you
in moments lost to springtime slipping by.

Then love burst outward,
leaping skyward,
and untamed blossoms danced against the wind.
All I wanted
was to hold you;
though passion tempted once, we never sinned.

Now love's gay petals
fade and wither,
and winter beckons, whispering a lie.
We were friends,
but friendships end . . .
yes, friendships end and even roses die.

This is a love poem I wrote in my late teens for a girl I had a serious crush on. The poem was originally titled "Christy."

Shadows, circa age 18-19
by Michael R. Burch

Alone again as evening falls,
I join gaunt shadows and we crawl
up and down my room's dark walls.

Up and down and up and down,
against starlight—strange, hopeless clowns—
we merge, emerge, submerge ... then drown.

We drown in shadows starker still—
shadows of the moonlit hills,
shadows of the souls we spill,

tumbling, to the ground below.
There, caked in grimy, clinging snow,
we flutter feebly, moaning low

for days dreamed once an age ago
when we weren't shadows, but were men ...
when we were men, or almost so.

"Shadows" was written in college but I seem to remember starting it in high school and not being happy with some of the lines. I believe the first, second and last stanzas remain largely the same but the third and fourth stanzas were revised. "Shadows" was published in my college literary journal, Homespun 1979-1980, then later by the literary journal Mind in Motion.

Milestones Toward Oblivion, circa age 19
by Michael R. Burch

A milestone here leans heavily
against a gaunt, golemic tree.
These words are chiseled thereupon:
"One mile and then Oblivion."

Swift larks that once swooped down to feed
on groping slugs, such insects breed
within their radiant flesh and bones ...
they did not heed the milestones.

Another marker lies ahead,
the only tombstone to the dead
whose eyeless sockets read thereon:
"Alas, behold Oblivion."

Once here the sun shone fierce and fair;
now night eternal shrouds the air
while winter, never-ending, moans
and drifts among the milestones.

This road is neither long nor wide ...
men gleam in death on either side.
Not long ago, they pondered on
milestones toward Oblivion.

Originally published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)

Poet to poet, circa age 16-17
by Michael R. Burch

I have a dream
...pebbles in a sparkling sand...
of wondrous things.

I see children
...variations of the same man...
playing together.

Black and yellow, red and white,
...stone and flesh, a host of colors...
together at last.

I see a time
...each small child another's cousin...
when freedom shall ring.

I hear a song
...sweeter than the sea sings...
of many voices.

I hear a jubilation
...respect and love are the gifts we must bring...
shaking the land.

I have a message,
...sea shells echo, the melody rings...
the message of God.

I have a dream
...all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone...
of many things.

I live in hope
...all children are merely small fragments of One...
that this dream shall come true.

I have a dream!
...but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?...
Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too!

Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true.
...i can feel it begin...
Lovers and dreamers are poets too.
...poets are lovers and dreamers too...

Dance With Me, circa age 18-19
by Michael R. Burch

Dance with me
to the fiddles’ plaintive harmonies.

Enchantingly,
each highstrung string,
each yearning key,
each a thread within the threnody,
bids us, "Waltz!"
then sets us free
to wander, dancing aimlessly.

Let us kiss
beneath the stars
as we slowly meet ...
we'll part
laughing gaily as we go
to measure love’s arpeggios.

Yes, dance with me,
enticingly;
press your lips to mine,
then flee.

The night is young,
the stars are wild;
embrace me now,
my sweet, beguiled,
and dance with me.

The curtains are drawn,
the stage is set
—patterned all in grey and jet—
where couples in like darkness met
—careless airy silhouettes—
to try love's timeless pirouettes.

They, too, spun across the lawn
to die in shadowy dark verdant.

But dance with me.

Sweet Merrilee,
don't cry, I see
the ironies of all the years
within the moonlight on your tears,
and every virgin has her fears ...

So laugh with me
unheedingly;
love's gaiety is not for those
who fail to heed the music`s flow,
but it is ours.

Now fade away
like summer rain,
then pirouette ...
the dance of stars
that waltz among night's meteors
must be the dance we dance tonight.

Then come again—
like a sultry wind.

Your slender body as you sway
belies the ripeness of your age,
for a woman's body burns tonight
beneath your gown of virgin white—
a woman's breasts now rise and fall
in answer to an ancient call,
and a woman's hips—soft, yet full—
now gently at your garments pull.

So dance with me,
sweet Merrilee ...
the music bids us,
"Waltz!"
Don't flee ...

But let us kiss
beneath the stars.
Love's passing pains will leave no scars
as we whirl beneath false moons
and heed the fiddle’s plaintive tunes ...

Oh, Merrilee,
the curtains are drawn,
the stage is set,
we, too, are stars, and two well met.
So dance with me.

I distinctly remember writing this poem my freshman year in college, circa 1976-1977, after meeting George King, who taught the creative writing classes. I would have been 18 when I started the poem, but it didn’t always cooperate and I seem to remember working on it the following year as well, then putting it aside for half a century. "Dance With Me" remains unpublished and unsubmitted.

Dance With Me (II), circa age 18-19
by Michael R. Burch

While the music plays
remembrance strays
toward a grander time . . .

Let's dance.

Shadows rising, mute and grey,
obscure those fervent yesterdays
of youth and gay romance,
but time is slipping by, and now
those days just don't seem real, somehow . . .

Why don't we dance?

This music is a memory,
for it's of another time . . .
a slower, stranger time.

We danced—remember how we danced?—
uncaring, merry, wild and free.
Remember how you danced with me?

Cheek to cheek and breast to breast,
your nipples hard against my chest,
we danced
     and danced
          and danced.

We cannot dance that way again,
for the years have borne away the flame
and left us only ashes,
but think of all those dances,

and dance with me.

I believe I wrote this poem around the same time as the original “Dance With Me,” this time from the perspective of the same lovers many years later. So this poem would have been written sometime between 1976 and 1977, around age 18-19. It was originally titled "Let's Dance." Unpublished and unsubmitted.

Yesterday My Father Died, circa age 16-19
by Michael R. Burch

Rice Krispies and bananas,
milk and orange juice,
newspapers stiff with frozen dew . . .
Yesterday my father died
and the feelings that I tried to hide
he’ll never knew, unless
he saw through my disguise.

Alarm clocks and radios,
crumpled sheets and pillows,
housecoats and tattered, too-small slippers . . .
Why did I never say I cared?
Why were no secrets ever shared?
For now there's nothing left of him
except the clothes he used to wear.

Dimmed lights and smoky murmurs,
a brief “Goodnight!” and fitful slumber,
yesterday's forgotten dreams . . .
Why did my father have to go,
knowing that I loved him so?
Or did he know? Because, it seems,
I never told him so.

The last words he spoke to me,
his laughter in the night,
mementos jammed in cluttered cabinets . . .

"Yesterday My Father Died" remains unpublished and unsubmitted.

Stryx: An Astronomer’s Report, circa age 18-19
by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday
(or was is an eon ago?)
a sun spit out its last remnants of light
over a planet long barren of life,
and died.

It was not a solitary occasion,
by any stretch of the imagination,
this decoronation
of a planet conceived out of desolation.

For her to die as she was born
—amidst the glory of galactic upheaval—
is not strange,
but fitting.

Fitting in that,
shorn of all her preposterous spawn
that had littered her surface like horrendous hair,
she died her death bare
and alone.

Once she was home to all living,
but she died home to the dead
who bereaved her of life.

Unfit for life she died that night
as her seas shone fatal, dark and blue.
Unfit for life she met her end
as mountains fell and lava spewed.
Unfit she died, agleam with death
whose radiance she wore.
Unfit she died as raging waves
obliterated every shore.

Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Unfit!
Contaminated with the rays
that smoldered in her radiant swamps
and seared her lifeless bays.

Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Unfit!
a virgin world no more,
but a planet raped and left to face
her death as she was born—
alone, so all alone.

Yesterday,
a planet green and lovely was no more.

Yesterday,
the whitecaps crashed against her shores
and then they were no more.

Yesterday,
a soft green light
no longer brushed the moon's dark heights . . .

There was no moon,
there was no earth;
there were only the bastards she had given birth
watching from their next raped world.

I wrote this poem around age 18-19 and it was published in the 1976-1977 issue of my college literary journal, Homespun. It remains otherwise unpublished and unsubmitted.

An Obscenity Trial, circa age 18-20
by Michael R. Burch

The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.

The prosecutor alleged himself most stylish and best-dressed;
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.

The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerks loved the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.

The prosecutor began his case
by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene,"
he screamed,
"to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society)
greeted this statement with applause.

"This man is no poet.
Just look—his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar!
He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words
or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be
the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster."
The jury left in tears of joy, literally sequestered.

The defendant sighed in mild despair,
"Please, let me answer to my peers."
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.

Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea and Poetry Life & Times. A well-known poet/editor criticized this poem for being "journalistic." But then the poem is written from the point of view of a journalist who's covering the trial of a poet about to be burned at the stake by his peers. The poem was completed by the end of my sophomore year in college. It appears in my 1978 poetry contest folder. But I believe I wrote the original version a bit earlier, probably around age 18 or 19.

Reflections on the Loss of Vision, circa age 19-20
by Michael R. Burch

The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels
that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls,
remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,
that it seems if I tried
and just closed my eyes,
I could once again be nine or ten.

The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall,
hunch there, I know, in the fast-piling snow, yet now I can't see them at all.
For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,
some things that I saw
when I was a boy,
are lost to me now in my "maturer" years.

The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese now preparing to leave
are there as they were, and yet they are not; and if it seems childish to grieve,
still, who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?
Well, in a small way,
through the passage of days,
I have learned some of his loss.

As a keen-eyed young lad I endeavored to see things most adults could not—
the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite haunts.
But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,
and it seems such a waste
of those far-sighted days,
to end up near blind in this wood.

I believe I wrote the first version of this poem around 1978 at age 19 or 20. I put it aside for many years and didn’t finish it until 2020 during the coronavirus pandemic. This is one of my more Robert-Frost-like poems and perhaps not a bad one for the age at which it was written. It remains unpublished.

With my daughter, by a waterfall, circa age 18-19
by Michael R. Burch

By a fountain that slowly shed
its rainbows of water, I led
my youngest daughter.

And the rhythm of the waves
that casually lazed
made her sleepy as I rocked her.

By that fountain I finally felt
fulfillment of which I had dreamt
feeling May’s warm breezes pelt

petals upon me.
And I held her close in the crook of my arm
as she slept, breathing harmony.

By a river that brazenly rolled,
my daughter and I strolled
toward the setting sun,

and the cadence of the cold,
chattering waters that flowed
reminded us both of an ancient song,

so we sang it together as we walked along
—unsure of the words, but sure of our love—
as the waterfall sighed and the sun died above.

This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun 1976-1977. It remains otherwise unpublished and unsubmitted.

Gentry, circa age 18-19
by Michael R. Burch

The men shined their shoes
and the ladies chose their clothes;
the rifle stocks were varnished
till they were untarnished
by a speck of dust.

The men trimmed their beards;
the ladies rouged their lips;
the horses were groomed
until the time loomed
for them to ride.

The men mounted their horses,
the ladies did the same;
then in search of game they went,
a pleasant time they spent,
and killed the fox.

This poem was published in my college literary journal, Homespun 1976-1977, along with "Smoke" and four other poems of mine. It remains otherwise unpublished and unsubmitted. I have never been a fan of hunting or fishing, or inflicting pain on other creatures.

Freedom, circa age 19-20
by Michael R. Burch

Freedom is not so much an idea as a feeling
    of open roads,
        of the hobo's call,
            of autumn leaves in brisk breeze reeling
        before a demon violently stealing
    all vestiges of the beauty of fall,
preparing to burden bare tree limbs with the heaviness of her icy loads.

And freedom is not so much a letting go as a seizing
    of forbidden pleasure,
        of lusty sport,
            of all that is delightful and pleasing,
        each taken totally within its season
    and exploited to the fullness of its worth
though it last but a moment and repeat itself never.

Oh, freedom is not so much irresponsibility as a desire
    to accept all the credit and all the blame
        for one's deeds,
            to achieve success or failure on one's own, to require
        either or both as a consequence of an inner fire,
    not to shirk one's duty, but to see
one's duty become himself—himself to tame.

I believe I wrote this poem circa 1978, when I was 19 or 20 years old. I had the image of a train-hopping hobo in mind when I wrote it. I'm not sure that I care for the poem's "wisdom" today, but I like its form and meter. "Freedom" remains unpublished.

Belfast’s Streets, circa age 14-20
by Michael R. Burch

Belfast’s streets are strangely silent,
deserted for a while,
and only shadows wander
her alleys, slick and vile
with children’s darkening blood.

Her sidewalks sigh and her cobblestones
clack in misery
beneath my booted feet,
longing to be free
from their legacy of blood,
and yet there’s no relief,
for it seems that there’s no God.

Her sirens scream and her PAs plead
and her shops and churches sob,
but the city throbs
—her heart the mobs
that are also her disease—
and still there’s no relief,
for it seems there is no God.

I listen to a radio
and men who seem to feel
that only “right” is real.

“We can’t give in
to men like them,
for we have an ideal
and God is on our side!”
one angrily replies,
but the sidewalks seem to chide,
clicking like snapped teeth.
And if God is on our side,
then where is God’s relief?
And if there is a God,
then why is there no love
and why is there no peace?

“Sweet innocence! this land was wild
and better wild again
than torn apart beneath the feet
of ‘educated’ men!”
The other screams in rage and hate,
and a war’s begun that will not end
till the show goes off at ten.

Now a little girl is singing,
walking t’ward me ’cross the street,
her voice so high and sweet
it hangs upon the air,
and her eyes are Irish eyes,
and her hair is Irish hair,
all red and wild and fair,
and she wears a Catholic cross,
but she doesn’t really care.

She’s singing to a puppy
and hugging him between
the verses of her hymn.

Now here’s a little love
and here’s a little peace,
and maybe here’s our Maker,
present though unseen,
on Belfast’s dreary streets.

This is one of my earliest poems, as indicated by the occasional use of archaisms. I believe I wrote "Belfast's Streets" under the influence of the song “Molly Malone” and news reports about religious strife in Belfast. I think the first version was written around age 14 in 1972, then the poem was updated and filed in 1978, around age 19-20.

You'll never know, circa age 15
by Michael R. Burch

You'll never know
just how I need you,
though you ought to know
after all this time;
you'll never see
how much I want you,
though your touch can tempt
these words to rhyme.

For storm clouds grow
till stars are hidden;
bright lightning rails
against mankind;
wild waves reach out
toward scorched comets;
but you do not see.
You must be blind.

You didn't have time, circa age 17-20
by Michael R. Burch

You didn't have time to love me,
always hurrying here and hurrying there;
you didn't have time to love me,
and you didn't have time to care.

You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung:
too busy for love, "too old" to be young . . .
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.

You didn't have time to take time
and you didn't have time to try.
Every time I asked you why, you said,
"Because, my love; that's why." And then
you didn't have time at all, my love.
You didn't have time at all.

You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun
that had blinded your eyes and left you undone.
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.

This is a song-poem that I wrote during my early songwriter phase, around age 17. According to my notes, I wrote it in 1975 and revised it in 1978.

Flight, circa age 16
by Michael R. Burch

Eagle, raven, blackbird, crow ...
What you are I do not know.
Where you go I do not care.
I’m unconcerned whose meal you bear.
But as you mount the sunlit sky,
I only wish that I could fly.
I only wish that I could fly.

Robin, hawk or whippoorwill ...
Should men care that you hunger still?
I do not wish to see your home.
I do not wonder where you roam.
But as you scale the sky's bright stairs,
I only wish that I were there.
I only wish that I were there.

Sparrow, lark or chickadee ...
Your markings I disdain to see.
Where you fly concerns me not.
I scarcely give your flight a thought.
But as you wheel and arc and dive,
I, too, would feel so much alive.
I, too, would feel so much alive.

I believe I wrote "Flight" around 1974 as a high school sophomore. But it could have been written a bit later. I was never satisfied with the poem, and I seem to remember submitting it to Bird Watcher's Digest and another nature-oriented magazine or two, then giving up. Then around 45 years later, I began revising the poem. That was on August 15-16, 2019. So this is one of my "newer older" poems. But it remains substantially the same as my teenage poem.

El Dorado, circa age 16-18
by Michael R. Burch

It's a fine town, a fine town,
though its alleys recede into shadow;
it's a very fine town for those who are searching
for an El Dorado.

Because the lighting is poor and the streets are bare
and the welfare line is long,
there must be something of value somewhere
to keep us hanging on
to our El Dorado.

Though the children are skinny, their parents are fat
from years of gorging on bleached white bread,
yet neither will leave
because all believe
in the vague things that are said
of El Dorado.

The young men with outlandish hairstyles
who saunter in and out of the turnstiles
with a song on their lips and an aimless shuffle,
scuffing their shoes, avoiding the bustle,
certainly feel no need to join the crowd
of those who work to earn their bread;
they must know that the rainbow's end
conceals a pot of gold
near El Dorado.

And the painted “actress” who roams the streets,
smiling at every man she meets,
must smile because, after years of running,
no man can outdo her in cruelty or cunning.
She must see the satire of “defeats”
and “triumphs” on the ambivalent streets
of El Dorado.

Yes, it's a fine town, a very fine town
for those who can leave when they tire
of chasing after rainbows and dreams
and living on nothing but fire.

But for those of us who cling to our dreams
and cannot let them go,
like the sad-eyed ladies who wander the streets
and the junkies high on snow,
the dream has become a reality
—the reality of hope
that grew too strong
not to linger on—
and so this is our home.

We chew the apple, spit it out,
then eat it "just once more."
For this is the big, big apple,
however rotten to the core,
and we are its worm
in the night when we squirm
in our El Dorado.

I believe I wrote the first version during my “Romantic phase” around age 16 or perhaps a bit later, circa 1974. It was definitely written in my teens because it appears in a poetry contest folder that I put together and submitted during my sophomore year in college.

A midnight shade of blue, circa age 16
by Michael R. Burch

You thought you saw a shadow moving somewhere in the night—
a lost and lonely stranger searching for a little light—
so you told me to approach him, ask him if he'd like a room . . .
how sweet of you to think of someone wandering in the gloom,
but he was only
a midnight shade of blue.

I thought I saw an answer shining somewhere in the night—
a spark of truth irradiating wisdom sweet and bright—
but when I sought to seize it, to bring it home to you . . .
it fluttered through my fingers like a wispy curlicue,
for it was only
a midnight shade of blue.

We thought that we had found true love together in the night—
a love as fine and elegant as wine by candlelight—
but when we woke this morning, we knew it wasn't true . . .
the "love" we'd shared was less than love; I guess we owe it to
emotion,
and a midnight shade of blue.

I seem to remember writing this one during my early songwriting phase. That would be around 1974, give or take. While I don’t claim it’s a great poem, I think I did show a pretty good touch with meter in my youth.

I saw the sun rising, circa age 16
by Michael R. Burch

I saw ten billion stars shine with the brilliance of but one,
and I thought, "What strange, satanic deed has some foul demon done,
to steal the luster from the stars, to dim the autumn sky?"
But as I mused upon the moment, deep within your eyes,
I saw a hint of morning within moonlit blue residing,
I noticed glints of blazing dawn within blue depths deriding,
I caught a glimpse of coming days, still, secret and surprising,
within the silent seas that flowed, stark silver and enticing;
yes, looking in your eyes, my love, amid a flash of lightning,
I saw the darkness going down . . . I saw the sun rising.

I believe this poem was originally written in 1974 at age 16, around the time I wrote “A Midnight Shade of Blue” and “When Last My Love Left Me.” According to my notes, it may have been revised and filed in 1979, but I believe any revisions were minor. Poe may have been an influence on this poem.

Damp Days, circa age 16-18
by Michael R. Burch

These are damp days,
and the earth is slick and vile
with the smell of month-old mud.

And yet it seldom rains;
a never-ending drizzle
drenches spring's bright buds
till they droop as though in death.

Now Time
drags out His endless hours
as though to bore to tears
His fretting, edgy servants
through the sheer length of His days
and slow passage of His years.

Damp days are His domain.

Irritation
grinds the ravaged nerves
and grips tight the gorging brain
which fills itself, through sense,
with vast morasses of clumped clay
while the temples throb in pain
at the thought of more damp days.

I believe I wrote the first version of this poem sometime between 1974 and 1976, then revised it around 1978.

A pledge for ignorance, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

In these troubled times,
when truth and conjecture
are no longer distinguished
by the common man,
who accepts all things
as part of some ultimate plan,
believing, perhaps rightly so,
that any gods existing now
shall soon be overthrown,
I have closed my eyes and seen
the dissolution of my beliefs.

Once I thought myself secure
belonging to a race of logic and science,
infallible, perhaps capable
of conquering the universe . . .
but as I have seen the plight
of my people growing worse and worse,
today I attempt not to think at all,
nor do I scale the heights that I once did;
having experienced one harrowing fall,
I will not risk another
even to save a brother.

For thought is like the flight of birds
that rise to heights unknown to men,
till, grazing the orbits of fiery stars,
they fall to earth, their feathers singed.
So I will not venture those starry paths
by moons unseen and planets ringed,
but I will live my life below,
secure in blissful ignorance,
never approaching thought's orbs aglow . . .
and though I may be wrong in this,
what I have not seen, I have not missed.

In this poem, I unleashed my inner 15-year-old cynic and I don't think it can be taken seriously. This poem was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, in the 1977-1978 issue. It was the first poem in that issue. It has not been published or submitted since. 

Autumn Lament, circa age 14
by Michael R. Burch

Alas, the earth is green no more;
her colors fade and die,
and all her trampled marigolds
lament the graying sky.

And now the summer sheds her coat
of buttercups, and so is bared
to winter’s palest furies
who laugh aloud and do not care
as they await their hour.

Where are the showers of April?
Where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?

Where are the lovely maidens
who browned ’neath the flaming sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?

Alas, the moss grows brown and stiff
and tumbles from the trees
that shiver in an icy mist,
limbs shivering in the breeze.

And now the frost has come and cast
itself upon the grass
as the surly snow grows bold
as it prepares at last
to pounce upon the land.

Where are the sheep and the cattle
that grazed beneath tall, stately trees?
And where are the fragile butterflies
that frolicked on the breeze?
And where are the rollicking robins
who once soared, so wild and free?
Oh, where can they all be?

Alas, the land has lost its warmth;
its rocky teeth chatter
and a thousand dying butterflies
soon’ll dodge the snowflakes as they splatter
flush against the flowers.

Where are those warm, happy hours?
Where are the snappy jays?
And where are the brilliant blossoms
that once set the meadows ablaze?

Where are the fruitful orchards?
Where, now, the squirrels and the hares?
How has our summer wonderland
become so completely bare
in such a short time?

Alas, the earth is green no more;
the sun no longer shines;
and all the grapes ungathered
hang rotting on their vines.

And now the winter wind grows cold
and comes out of the North
to freeze the flowers as they stand
and bend toward the South.

And now the autumn becomes bald,
is shorn of all its life,
as the stiletto wind hones in
to slice the skin like a paring knife,
carving away all warmth.

Alas, the children laugh no more,
but shiver in their beds
or’ll walk to school through blinding snow
with caps to keep their heads
safe from the cruel cold.

Oh, where are the showers of April
and where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?

Where are the lovely maidens
who browned ’neath the flaming sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?

This is one of the earliest poems that I can remember writing. The use of “’neath” is an indication of its antiquity. Unfortunately, I don’t remember exactly when I wrote the first version, but I will guess around 1972 at age 14.

Gainsboro(ugh), circa age 15
by Michael R. Burch

Times forgotten, times reviled
were all you gave this child, beguiled,
besides one ghostly memory
to haunt him down Life’s winding wild.

And though his character was formed
somewhere within your lightless shade,
not a fragment of the man
that he became today remains

anywhere within the gloom
cast by your dark insidious trees ...
for fleeting dreams and memories
are only dreams and memories.

According to my memory and notes, I wrote the first version of this poem around 1973, circa age 15, revised it in 1978, then finally completed it a mere 48 years later at age 63! I actually have quite a few memories of Gainsborough and none are as dark as the poem might make it seem. The poem is really a complaint about life on earth resulting in divisions and losses. Gainsborough is mostly lost to me, and I am entirely lost to Gainsborough. We are divided by time and distance, and while I hazily remember Gainsborough, I’m sure Gainsborough remembers me not at all, since I was so small and insignificant when we knew each other. However, if a poet is read, he may be remembered...

Red Dawn, circa age 14
by Michael R. Burch

The sun, like a spotlight,
is spinning round the trees
a web of light.

And with her amber radiance
she is
driving off the night.

Oh, how like a fire
she is
burning off the black.

And in her flaming wake
she has left a track
of puffy smoke.

I believe this is one of my very earliest poems, written around age 14, due to the fact that the original poem had three somewhat archaic apostrophes: ’round, ’way and ’luminance. I weaned myself of such things pretty quickly. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1975. "Red Dawn" appeared in my high school journal but has not been otherwise published or submitted.



Michael R. Burch is an American poet who lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Beth, their son Jeremy, two outrageously spoiled puppies and a talkative parakeet. Burch's poems, translations, essays, articles, reviews, short stories, epigrams, quotes, puns, jokes and letters have appeared more than 9,000 times in publications which include TIME, USA Today, The Hindu, BBC Radio 3, CNN.com, Daily Kos, The Washington Post and hundreds of literary journals, websites and blogs. Please click here for the Bio and Curriculum Vitae of Michael R. Burch.

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