The Making of a Poet
by Michael R. Burch
I have a nice resume:
Michael R. Burch is one of the world's most-published poets, with over 11,500 publications (including poems that have gone viral but not self-published poems). Burch's poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into 22 languages, incorporated into three plays and four operas, and set to music, from swamp blues to classical, 74 times by 33 composers. Burch is also a longtime editor, publisher and translator of Jewish Holocaust poetry as well as poems about the Trail of Tears, Hiroshima, Ukraine, the Nakba and school shootings.
But how did it all begin?
I like to think it started with an early poem quite appropriately titled "Poetry" and written to the Muse of lyric poetry, Erato.
While I don’t consider “Poetry” to be my best poem—I wrote the first version in my teens—it’s a poem that holds special meaning for me. I consider it my Ars Poetica. Here’s how I came to write “Poetry” as a teenager ...
When I was eleven years old, my father, a staff sergeant in the US Air Force, was stationed in Wiesbaden, Germany. We were forced to live off-base for two years, in a tiny German village where there were no other American children to play with, and no English radio or TV stations. To avoid complete boredom, I began going to the base library, checking out eight books at a time (the limit), reading them in a few days, then continually repeating the process. I quickly exhausted the library’s children’s fare and began devouring adult novels along with a plethora of books about history, science and nature.
In the fifth grade, I tested at the reading level of a college sophomore and was put in a reading group of one. I was an incredibly fast reader: I flew through books like crazy. I was reading Austen, Dickens, Hardy, et al, while my classmates were reading … whatever one normally reads in grade school. My grades shot through the roof and from that day forward I was always the top scholar in my age group, wherever I went.
But being bright and well-read does not invariably lead to happiness. I was tall, scrawny, introverted and socially awkward. I had trouble making friends. I began to dabble in poetry around age thirteen, but then we were finally granted base housing and for two years I was able to focus on things like marbles, quarters, comic books, baseball, basketball and football. And, from an incomprehensible distance, girls.
When I was fifteen my father retired from the Air Force and we moved back to his hometown of Nashville. While my parents were looking for a house, we lived with my grandfather and his third wife. They didn’t have air-conditioning and didn’t seem to believe in hot food—even the peas and beans were served cold!—so I was sweaty, hungry, lonely, friendless and miserable. It was at this point that I began to write poetry seriously. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because my options were so limited and the world seemed so impossibly grim and unfair.
Writing poetry helped me cope with my loneliness and depression. I had feelings of deep alienation and inadequacy, but suddenly I had found something I could do better than anyone around me. (Perhaps because no one else was doing it at all?)
However, I was a perfectionist and poetry can be very tough on perfectionists. I remember becoming incredibly frustrated and angry with myself. Why wasn’t I writing poetry like Shelley and Keats at age fifteen? I destroyed all my early poems in a fit of pique. Fortunately, I was able to reproduce most of the better poems from memory, but two in particular were lost forever and still haunt me.
Heir on Fire
by Michael R. Burch
I wanted to be Shelley’s heir,
Just fourteen years old, and consumed by desire.
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
I went to work—pale, laden with care:
why wouldn’t the words do as I aspired,
when I wanted to Keats’s heir?
My "verse" seemed neither here nor there.
How the hell did Sappho tune her lyre?
And why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
The journals laughed at my childish fare.
Had I bitten off more than eagles dare
when I wanted to be Byron’s heir?
My words lacked Rimbaud’s savoir faire.
My prospects were looking quite dire!
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
At fifteen I committed my poems to the fire,
calling each goddess a liar.
I just wanted to be Shakespeare’s heir.
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
In the tenth grade, at age sixteen, I had a major breakthrough. My English teacher gave us a poetry assignment. We were instructed to create a poetry booklet with five chapters of our choosing. I still have my booklet, a treasured memento, banged out on a Corona typewriter with cursive script, which gave it a sort of elegance, a cachet. My chosen chapters were: Rock Songs, English Poems, Animal Poems, Biblical Poems, and ta-da, My Poems! Audaciously, alongside the poems of Shakespeare, Burns and Tennyson, I would self-publish my fledgling work!
My teacher wrote “This poem is beautiful” beside one my earliest compositions, “Playmates.” Her comment was like rocket fuel to my stellar aspirations. Surely I was next Keats, the next Shelley! Surely immediate and incontrovertible success was now fait accompli, guaranteed!
Of course I had no idea what I was getting into. How many fifteen-year-old poets can compete with the immortal bards? I was in for some very tough sledding because I had good taste in poetry and could tell the difference between merely adequate verse and the real thing. I continued to find poetry vexing. Why the hell wouldn’t it cooperate and anoint me its next Shakespeare, pronto?
Then I had another breakthrough. I remember it vividly. I working at a McDonald’s at age seventeen, salting away money for college because my parents had informed me they didn’t have enough money to pay my tuition. Fortunately, I was able to earn a full academic scholarship, but I still needed to make money for clothes, dating (hah!), etc. I was sitting in the McDonald’s break room when I wrote a poem, “Reckoning” (later re-titled “Observance”), that sorta made me catch my breath. Did I really write that? For the first time, I felt like a “real poet.” This was the best of my early poems to be completed.
Observance
by Michael R. Burch
Here the hills are old, and rolling
casually 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 . . .
Another early poem, “Infinity,” written around age eighteen, again made me feel like a real poet.
Infinity
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 soul 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.
Now, two “real poems” in two years may not seem like a big deal to non-poets. But they were very big deals to me. I would go off to college feeling that I was, really, a real poet, with two real poems under my belt. I felt like someone, at last. I had, at least, potential.
But I was in for another rude shock. Being a good reader of poetry—good enough to know when my own poems were falling far short of the mark—I was absolutely floored when I learned that impostors were controlling Poetry’s fate! These impostors were claiming that meter and rhyme were passé, that honest human sentiment was something to be ridiculed and dismissed, that poetry should be nothing more than concrete imagery, etc.
At first I was devastated, but then I quickly became enraged. I knew the difference between good poetry and bad. I could feel it in my flesh, in my bones. Who were these impostors to say that bad poetry was good, and good was bad? How dare they? I was incensed! I loved Poetry. I saw her as my savior because she had rescued me from depression and feelings of inadequacy. So I made a poetic pledge to help save my Savior from the impostors. "Poetry" was another early poem, written at age 18...
Poetry
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 taken both your eyes
which, once cerulean as Gogh’s skies, had leapt with 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 boy to man;
now I look back, remember when—you shone, and cannot understand
why here, 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.
Originally published by The Lyric
I consider "Poetry" to be my Ars Poetica. However, the poem has been misinterpreted as the poet claiming to be Poetry's sole "savior." The poet never claims to be a savior or hero, but more like a member of a rescue operation. The poem 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 gratitude, but never claims to have done anything heroic 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.
These are other early poems of mine...
EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART I
These are juvenilia (early poems) of Michael R. Burch, written in high school and college…
Bound
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
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 appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. It was originally titled "Why Did I Go?"
Am I
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
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 feeble 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?
“Am I” is one of my very early poems; if I remember correctly, it was written the same day as “Time,” the poem below. The refrain “Am I” is an inversion of the biblical “I Am” supposedly given to Moses as the name of God. I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote the two poems.
Time
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
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?
"Time" is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school sophomore project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates."
Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
Though night has come,
I'm not alone,
for stars appear
—fierce, faint and far—
to dance until they disappear.
They reappear
as clouds roll by
in stormy billows
past bent willows;
sometimes they almost seem to sigh.
And time rolls on,
on past the willows,
on past the stormclouds as they billow,
on to the stars
so faint and far . . .
on to the stars
so faint and far.
The Communion of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
There was a moment
without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,
but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist
felt more than seen.
I was eighteen,
my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.
Expectation hung like a cry in the night,
and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet.
There was an instant . . .
without words, but with a deeper communion,
as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;
liquidly our lips met
—feverish, wet—
forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,
in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . .
when the rest of the world became distant.
Then the only light was the moon on the rise,
and the only sound, the communion of sighs.
aaa
Liquid Assets
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
And so I have loved you, and so I have lost,
accrued disappointment, ledgered its cost,
debited wisdom, credited pain …
My assets remaining are liquid again.
I wrote this poem in college after my younger sister decided to major in accounting. In fact, the poem was originally titled “Accounting.” At another point I titled it “Liquidity Crisis.”
absinthe sea
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe
the bitter green liqueur
reflects the dying sunset over the sea
and the darkling liquid froths
up over the rim of my cup
to splash into the free,
churning waters of the sea
i do not drink
i do not drink the liqueur,
for I sail on an absinthe sea
that stretches out unendingly
into the gathering night
its waters are no less green
and no less bitter,
nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light
they both harbor night,
and neither shall shelter me
neither shall shelter me
from the anger of the wind
or the cruelty of the sun
for I sail in the goblet of some Great God
who gazes out over a greater sea,
and when my life is done,
perhaps it will be because
He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea.
I seem to remember writing this poem in college, just because I liked the sound of the word “absinthe.”
Ambition
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
Men speak of their “ambition”
and I smile to hear them say
that within them burns such fire,
such a longing to be great ...
But I laugh at their “Ambition”
as their wistfulness amasses;
I seek Her tongue’s indulgence
and Her parted legs’ crevasses.
I was very ambitious about my poetry, even as a teenager.
as Time walked by
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
yesterday i dreamed of us 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, your smile
could fill the darkest night
with brilliant light
or thrill the dullest day
with ecstasy
so long as Time did not impede our way;
until It did,
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 us
to be gone
Forevermore.
this morning i awakened to the thought
that you were near
with honey hair and happy smile
lying sweetly by my side,
but then i remembered—you 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.
Gentry
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
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.
"Gentry” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, along with "Smoke" and four other poems of mine. I have never been a fan of hunting, fishing, or inflicting pain on other creatures.
Of You
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
There is little to write of in my life,
and little to write off, as so many do ...
so I will write of you.
You are the sunshine after the rain,
the rainbow in between;
you are the joy that follows fierce pain;
you are the best that I've seen
in my life.
You are the peace that follows long strife;
you are tranquility.
You are an oasis in a dry land
and
you are the one for me!
You are my love; you are my life; you are my all in all.
Your hand is the hand that holds me aloft ...
without you I would fall.
This was the first poem of mine that appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, and thus it was my first poem to appear on a printed page. A fond memory.
bbb
Burn, Ovid
by Michael R. Burch
“Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke
Sunday School,
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imaging watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit *** 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, *******, ******.
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 ******* 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, 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 on the poem. The next poem, "*** 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year.
*** 101
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.
Paradise
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
There’s a sparkling stream
And clear blue lake
A home to ******,
Duck and drake
Where the waters flow
And the winds are soft
And the sky is full
Of birds aloft
Where the long grass waves
In the gentle breeze
And the setting sun
Is a pure cerise
Where the gentle deer
Though timid and shy
Are not afraid
As we pass them by
Where the morning dew
Sparkles in the grass
And the lake’s as clear
As a looking glass
Where the trees grow straight
And tall and green
Where the air is pure
And fresh and clean
Where the bluebird trills
Her merry song
As robins and skylarks
Sing along
A place where nature
Is at her best
A place of solitude
Of quiet and rest
This is one of my very earliest poems, written as a song. It was “published” in a high school assignment poetry notebook.
All My Children
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-16
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 hard 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 lovers dark and tall
for dreams dreamed not at all.
It is May now, merry May
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon these ardent gardens,
on the graves of all my children ...
But they never did depart;
they still live within my heart.
Dance With Me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Dance with me
to the fiddles’ plaintive harmonies.
Enchantingly,
each highstrung string,
each yearning key,
each a thread within the threnody,
whispers "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 such 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 ****** 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 winter wind.
Your slender body as you sway
belies the ripeness of your age,
for a woman's body burns tonight
beneath your gown of ****** white—
a woman's ******* 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.
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 beyond night's depths.
So dance with me.
I distinctly remember writing this poem my freshman year in college.
Dance With Me (II)
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
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 ******* 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.
Impotent
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-21
Tonight my pen
is barren
of passion, spent of poetry.
I hear your name
upon the rain
and yet it cannot comfort me.
I feel the pain
of dreams that wane,
of poems that falter, losing force.
I write again
words without end,
but I cannot control their course ...
Tonight my pen
is sullen
and wants no more of poetry.
I hear your voice
as if a choice,
but how can I respond, or flee?
I feel a flame
I cannot name
that sends me searching for a word,
but there is none
not over-done,
unless it's one I never heard.
Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight—
it's all right.
My newborn son, cease sighing,
softly, slowly close your eyes,
purse your tiny lips
and kiss the crisp, cool night
a warm goodbye.
Fierce yet gentle fragment,
the better part of me,
why don't you dream a dream
deep as eternity,
until sunrise?
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight —
it's all right.
Say You Love Me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
Joy and anguish surge within my soul;
contesting there, they cannot be controlled,
for grinding yearnings grip me like a vise.
Stars are burning;
it's almost morning.
Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed
dance before me, forming formless scenes;
and now, at last, the feeling grows
as stars, declining,
bow to morning.
And you are music echoing through dreams,
rising from some far-off lyric spring;
oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing.
Stars on fire
form a choir.
Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes;
you laugh at me as dancing embers die.
You touch me so and still I don't know why ...
But say you love me.
Say you love me.
With my daughter, by a waterfall
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
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 a waterfall sighed and the sun died above.
This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun 1976-1977.
Sea Dreams
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
I.
In timeless days
I've crossed the waves
of seaways seldom seen.
By the last low light of evening
the breakers that careen
then dive back to the deep
have rocked my ship to sleep,
and so I've known the peace
of a soul at last at ease
there where Time's waters run
in concert with the sun.
With restless waves
I've watched the days’
slow movements, as they hum
their antediluvian songs.
Sometimes I've sung along,
my voice as soft and low
as the sea's, while evening slowed
to waver at the dim
mysterious moonlit rim
of dreams no man has known.
In thoughtless flight,
I've scaled the heights
and soared a scudding breeze
over endless arcing seas
of waves ten miles high.
I've sheared the sable skies
on wings as soft as sighs
and stormed the sun-pricked pitch
of sunset’s scarlet-stitched,
ebullient dark demise.
I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds
ten thousand leagues or more
above the windswept shores
of seas no man has sailed
—great seas as grand as hell's,
shores littered with the shells
of men's "immortal" souls—
and I've warred with dark sea-holes
whose open mouths implored
their depths to be explored.
And I've grown and grown and grown
till I thought myself the king
of every silver thing ...
But sometimes late at night
when the sorrowing wavelets sing
sad songs of other times,
I taste the windborne rime
of a well-remembered day
on the whipping ocean spray,
and I bow my head to pray ...
II.
It's been a long, hard day;
sometimes I think I work too hard.
Tonight I'd like to take a walk
down by the sea—
down by those salty waves
brined with the scent of Infinity,
down by that rocky shore,
down by those cliffs I'd so often climb
when the wind was **** with the tang of lime
and every dream was a sailor's dream.
Then small waves broke light,
all frothy and white,
over the reefs in the ramblings of night,
and the pounding sea
—a mariner’s dream—
was bound to stir a boy's delight
to such a pitch
that he couldn't desist,
but was bound to splash through the surf in the light
of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright.
Christ, those nights were fine,
like a well-aged wine,
yet more scalding than fire
with the marrow’s desire.
Then desire was a fire
burning wildly within my bones,
fiercer by far than the frantic foam ...
and every wish was a moan.
Oh, for those days to come again!
Oh, for a sea and sailing men!
Oh, for a little time!
It's almost nine
and I must be back home by ten,
and then ... what then?
I have less than an hour to stroll this beach,
less than an hour old dreams to reach ...
And then, what then?
Tonight I'd like to play old games—
games that I used to play
with the somber, sinking waves.
When their wraithlike fists would reach for me,
I'd dance between them gleefully,
mocking their witless craze
—their eager, unchecked craze—
to batter me to death
with spray as light as breath.
Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs—
songs of the haunting moon
drawing the tides away,
songs of those sultry days
when the sun beat down
till it cracked the ground
and the sea gulls screamed
in their agony
to touch the cooling clouds.
The distant cooling clouds!
Then the sun shone bright
with a different light
over different lands,
and I was always a pirate in flight.
Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams,
if only for a while,
and walk perhaps a mile
along this windswept shore,
a mile, perhaps, or more,
remembering those days,
safe in the soothing spray
of the thousand sparkling streams
that rush into this sea.
I like to slumber in the caves
of a sailor's dark sea-dreams ...
oh yes, I'd love to dream,
to dream
and dream
and dream.
“Sea Dreams” was one of my more ambitious early poems. The next poem, "Son," is a companion piece to “Sea Dreams” that was written around the same time.
Son
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
An island is bathed in blues and greens
as a weary sun settles to rest,
and the memories singing
through the back of my mind
lull me to sleep as the tide flows in.
Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed,
my heart and my home will be till I die,
but where you are is where my thoughts go
when the tide is high.
[etc., in the handwritten version, the father laments abandoning his son]
So there where the skylarks sing to the sun
as the rain sprinkles lightly around,
understand if you can
the mind of a man
whose conscience so long ago drowned.
The People Loved What They Had Loved Before
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
We did not worship at the shrine of tears;
we knew not to believe, not to confess.
And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers,
we wrote off love, we gave a stern address
to things that we disapproved of, things of yore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We did not build stone monuments to stand
six hundred years and grow more strong and arch
like bridges from the people to the Land
beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march,
pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe.
We played a minor air of Ire (in E).
The sheep chose to ignore us, even though,
long destitute, we plied our songs for free.
We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
At last outlandish wailing, we confess,
ensued, because no listeners were left.
We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less
divine than man, and, like us, long bereft.
We stooped to love too late, too Learned to *****.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
Have I been too long at the fair?
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
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 15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. “Have I been too long at the fair?” was published in my high school literary journal, the Lantern.
hey pete
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
for Pete Rose
hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.
When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."
Earthbound
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a floating and crazily-dancing spirit horse through a storm as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse.
Earthbound,
and yet I now fly
through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting ...
so high
that no sound
echoing by
below where the mountains are lifting
the sky
can be heard.
Like a bird,
but not meek,
like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey,
I will shriek,
not a word,
but a screech,
and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay—
the sheep,
the earthbound.
Huntress
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
after Baudelaire
Lynx-eyed, cat-like and cruel, you creep
across a crevice dropping deep
into a dark and doomed domain.
Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane.
Rain falls upon your path, and pain
pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause
and heed the oft-lamented laws
which bid you not begin again
till night returns. You wail like wind,
the sighing of a soul for sin,
and give up hunting for a heart.
Till sunset falls again, depart,
though hate and hunger urge you—"On!"
Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn.
Flying
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16
i shall rise
and try the ****** 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 15-16.
Love Unfolded Like a Flower
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20
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.
Cameo
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonyx eyes.
Here, where times flies
in the absence of light,
all ecstasies are intimations of night.
Hold me tonight in the spell I have cast;
promise what cannot be given.
Show me the stairway to heaven.
Jacob's-ladder grows all around us;
Jacob's ladder was fashioned of onyx.
So breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonic eyes …
and, if in the morning I am not wise,
at least then I'll know if this dream we call life
was worth the surmise.
Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)
Analogy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Our embrace is like a forest
lying blanketed in snow;
you, the lily, are enchanted
by each shiver trembling through;
I, the snowfall, cling in earnest
as I press so close to you.
You dream that you now are sheltered;
I dream that I may break through.
Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)
Flight
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
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 sun-splashed 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.
Freedom
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20
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 ***** 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.
Childhood's End
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22
How well I remember
those fiery Septembers:
dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame,
lay trampled before me
and fluttered, imploring
the bright, dancing rain to descend once again.
Now often I've thought on
the meaning of autumn,
how the rainbows' enchantments defeated dark clouds
while robins repeated
ancient songs sagely heeded
so wisely when winters before they'd flown south.
And still, in remembrance,
I've conjured a semblance
of childhood and how the world seemed to me then;
but early this morning,
when, rising and yawning,
I found a gray hair … it was all beyond my ken.
Easter, in Jerusalem
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
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.
“Easter, in Jerusalem” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun.
Gone
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
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.
Canticle: an Aubade
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16
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. It's not a great poem, but the music is pretty good for a beginner.
Eternity beckons ...
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Eternity beckons ...
the wine becomes fire in my veins.
You are a petal,
unfolding,
cajoling.
I am your sun.
I will shine with the fierceness of my desire;
touched, you will burst into flame.
I will shine and again shine and again shine.
I will shine. I will shine.
You will burn and again burn and again burn.
You will burn. You will burn.
We will extinguish ourselves in our ecstasy;
We will sigh like the wind.
We will ebb into darkness, our love become ashes . . .
never speaking of sin.
Never speaking of sin.
Every Man Has a Dream
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 23
lines composed at Elliston Square
Every man has a dream that he cannot quite touch ...
a dream of contentment, of soft, starlit rain,
of a breeze in the evening that, rising again,
reminds him of something that cannot have been,
and he calls this dream love.
And each man has a dream that he fears to let live,
for he knows: to succumb is to throw away all.
So he curses, denies it and locks it within
the cells of his heart and he calls it a sin,
this madness, this love.
But each man in his living falls prey to his dreams,
and he struggles, but so he ensures that he falls,
and he finds in the end that he cannot deny
the joy that he feels or the tears that he cries
in the darkness of night for this light he calls love.
Every time I think of leaving …
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Every time I think of leaving …
I see my mother's eyes
staring at me in despair,
and I feel the old scar
throbbing again.
Then I think of the father
that I never knew;
I remember how,
as a child,
I could never understand
not having a father.
And when the tears start falling,
running slowly down my cheeks,
I think of our two sons
and all their many dreams—
dreams no better than dust
the day that I leave.
And when my hands start shaking,
when my eyes will not adjust,
when I know there's no tomorrow
for the two of us,
then I think of our young daughter
who prays, eyes tightly shut,
not to lose her mother or father …
and I know that I can't leave.
Every time I think of going,
I close my eyes and see
the days we spent together
when love was all we dreamed,
and I wish that I could find
(how I wish that I could find!)
a reason to believe.
Go down to the ***-down
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
Go down
to the ***-down.
Pause in the pungent,
moonless night,
watching the partners as they dance;
go down ...
don’t you know ...
it's your only chance?
Go down
to the ***-down.
Go down
to the ***-down,
and whirl as you dance
through a dream of wine,
through a world once your world,
through a world without time,
through a world rich and rhythmic,
through a world full of rhyme.
O, go down
to the ***-down.
Go down.
As they slow down,
the couples will whirl
to a reel of romance,
for the music has called them,
and so they must dance.
Go down, don't you know
that this is your chance?
Go down
to the ***-down.
Sappho’s Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
for Jeremy
Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call
while the dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening ...
this is their night, the first night of fall.
Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone ...
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.
Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone ...
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.
Belfast's Streets
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
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.
Hills
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
For many years I have fought
the rocks and the sand and the weeds,
the frost and the floods and the trees
of these hills
to build myself a home.
Now it seems I will fight no longer,
but it’s a hard thing
for an old warrior to give up.
Here in these hills let them lay down my bones
where the sun settles wearily to rest,
and let my spirit dream in its endless sleep
that someday it also shall rise
to kiss the morning clouds.
This wall of stone that I built
of rock hewn by my own hands
shall not stand long
through the passage of time,
and when it lies in cakes of dust
and its particles kiss my bones,
then the battle that these hills and I fought
will finally have been won.
But mother Gaia will not shun
her wayward son for long;
she will take me and cradle me in her mud,
cover me with a blanket of snow,
then sing me to sleep with a nightingale’s song.
Now the night grows cold within me;
no more summers shall I see …
but, nevertheless, when June comes,
my spirit shall wander the paths through the trees
that lead to these hills,
these ******, lovely hills,
and then I shall be free.
All the young sailors
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
All the young sailors
follow the sea,
leaving their lovers
to live and be free,
to brave violent tempests,
to ride out wild storms,
to dream of new lovers
seductive and warm,
to drink until sunset
then stretch out at dawn
in the dew of emotions
they don't understand,
to follow the sunlight,
to flee from the rain,
to live out their longings
though often in pain,
to dream of the children
they never shall see
while bucking the waves
of an unending sea
till, racked by harsh coughing,
his lungs almost gone,
straining to catch one last glimpse of the sun,
the last of the sailors finally succumbs,
for all the young sailors
die young.
Hush, my darling
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Hush, my darling; all your tears
will never bring again
that which Time has taken.
And though you’re so ****** lovely
that a god might wish to make you his,
Time cares not for loveliness;
he takes what he will take.
Sleep now darling, don’t awaken
till the dream is over.
Dream of fields of clover
dancing in an autumn wind.
Lie down at my side
and let sleep's soothing tide
carry you into an ocean deep.
Be silent, world; let her sleep.
Do not disturb a child
upon her journey mild
into the realm of dreams.
Sleep, carry her to that sweet state
where little girls need not know Fate
dismembers the dreams of men.
Amora’s Complaint
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Will you walk with me tonight?
for the moon hangs low and travelers seldom
disturb the silence of this ghostly kingdom.
We shall not be seen
if we linger by this stream
that shimmers in the starlight.
Will you talk to me awhile?
For sounds don’t carry very far;
the interminable silence is barely marred
by the labored breathing
of the "giant" who lies sleeping
in caverns fetid and vile,
and I crave your immaculate smile.
So close to death, the final sleep,
he hastens as he lies.
Silence louder than his sighs
drifts on the languid air
toward his musty lair,
and all life that it finds, it keeps.
And though he sleeps,
in dreams content,
mistaking bile for dew,
he knows not what is true.
His eyes are worse than blind men's eyes,
for the images they “see” disguise
how swift and sure is death's descent.
His ears hear songs that are not sung;
his nostrils scent a faint perfume
permeating midnight's gloom,
when all the while his rotting flesh
heralds worms to view his death.
He festers, having long been stung.
O, once he was as you are now—
full of passion, wild and free,
majestic, formed most perfectly.
But tonight, hideously deformed,
he himself becomes a worm;
though he doesn't see that he's changed, somehow.
Why, he still calls me his “dearest friend,”
although I cannot bear to near
that stinking, dying sufferer!
He asks me why I stray so far
from the "comfort" of his arms ...
Tonight, I said, "This is the end."
O, he swore to not let me depart,
but when he couldn't even rise
to chase me as I leapt the skies,
I think he almost understood.
He frowned. His skin, like rotting wood,
seemed to come apart. He almost touched my heart.
But such a vile and leprous being
I cannot have to be my love.
So while the stars shine high above
and you and I are here alone,
help me undress; unzip my gown.
Come, sate my Desire this perfect evening.
Blue Cowboy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
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.
Cowpoke
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
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 **** 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 “Cowpoke” was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day.
If Not For Love
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
The little child who cries,
brushing sleep from startled eyes,
might not have awakened from her dreams
to fill the night with plaintive screams
if not for love.
The little collie pup
who tore the sofa up
and pleads here in a mournful crouch,
might not have ripped apart the couch
if not for love.
And the little flower ***
that broke and littered the rug with sod
might not have been dropped if a child had not tried
to place it at her mother's bedside—
if not for love.
Ecstasy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
A soft breeze stirs the sun-drenched grass
that parts, reforms, and then is still.
Sunshine, cascading from above,
sipped by the flowers to their fill,
then bursts out in the rosy reds,
the violet blues and buttercup yellows,
bolder, more eager, given fresh birth,
somehow transformed within frail petals
into an ecstasy of colors
broadcast across the receptive land,
which now wears a cloak like Joseph’s,
nature’s brand.
EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART II
i (dedicated to u)
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 ******
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 “i (dedicated to u)” after discovering the poetry of e. e. cummings while reading independently in high school.
Ode to the Sun
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Day is done ...
on, swift sun.
Follow still your silent course.
Follow your unyielding course.
On, swift sun.
Leave no trace of where you've been;
give no hint of what you've seen.
But, ever as you onward flee,
touch me, O sun,
touch me.
Now day is done ...
on, swift sun.
Go touch my love about her face
and warm her now for my embrace,
for though she sleeps so far away,
where she is not, I shall not stay.
Go tell her now I, too, shall come.
Go on, swift sun,
go on.
Perspective
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22
Childhood is a summer sky —
the clouds are always passing by.
Old age is a winter storm —
the clouds are always coming on.
Recursion
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22
Love is a dream the pale dreamer imagines;
the more he imagines, the less he can see;
the less he can see, the more he imagines,
for dreams lead to blindness, and blindness
—to dreams.
Sanctuary at Dawn
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
I have walked these thirteen miles
just to stand outside your door.
The rain has dogged my footsteps
for thirteen miles, for thirty years,
through the monsoon seasons ...
and now my tears
have all been washed away.
Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged,
I stumbled and I climbed
rainslickened slopes
that led me home
to the hope that I might find
a life I lived before.
The door is wet; my cheeks are wet,
but not with rain or tears ...
as I knock I sweat
and the raining seems
the rhythm of the years.
Now you stand outlined in the doorway
—a man as large as I left—
and with bated breath
I take a step
into the accusing light.
Your eyes are grayer
than I remembered;
your hair is grayer, too.
As the red rust runs
down the dripping drains,
our voices exclaim—
"My father!"
"My son!"
Pilgrim Mountain
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-18
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
of late become their home
here, on Pilgrim Mountain.
Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)
Playmates
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 13-14
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! In any case, "Happiness" was my first longish poem and "Playmates" was the second, at least as far as I can remember.
The Sandman’s Song
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
I sing white water,
birds on the bough,
bunnies and redwoods
to sleep … to sleep …
I sing, “Wild forests,
green meadows, blue seas,
drink deep …
drink deep … drink deep …”
I whisper, “Bright robins,
please, be wise,
and wily weasels, close your eyes …
fierce eyes …”
I bid all the rivers, “Come, seek your beds!”
I bid all the children, “Off, sleepyheads!”
then softly shutter their eyes …
eyes … eyes.
I lullaby, lullaby down the plains,
echo through mountains
and moonlit hills …
hills … hills …
I murmur, “Oh, mothers,
please don’t rise;
shadows and stars,
be still … be still … be still.”
And the world sleeps.
Published by Borderless Journal
Martin Luther King Jr. was a poet in his famous "I Have A Dream" poem-sermon-speech. I recognized this as a boy in a poem I wrote in which an older Poet (with a capital "P") speaks to a younger poet (with a lower-case "p") who echoes his thoughts.
Poet to poet
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-18
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…
Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)
Rachel Lindsey
by Michael R. Burch, age 22-26
Rachel Lindsey lives in fear
of a love she'll never know,
and she dreams of it in tears,
but she will not let it grow,
so she's building up a fortress
that will keep her feelings in.
It will have walls wide as China’s,
and higher still, and then
she'll build herself a tower
that will rise above those walls.
There she'll watch her love for hours
as he tries to climb, but falls.
And she'll sigh each time he falls,
and she'll gasp each time he makes
a little headway up her fortress,
but she need not fear—she's safe.
She wants desperately to love him,
but she will not pay love's price;
though she dreams about surrender,
she's been living out a lie.
She's no damsel in a tower;
she's a woman growing old.
She can't spare another hour
to be distant, cruel and cold.
And she knows this, but she knows
that love's a gamble: few can win.
And she cannot bear to see her heart
spin Fortune’s wheel again.
So she'll watch him as he walks,
at last, dejectedly away,
and she'll call and she will call,
but she’ll never, never say
the only words to make him stay.
She'll never say, "I love you."
Oh, my fair lady
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Oh, my fair lady, where have you gone …
Over the mountains to follow the sun?
Off to the northlands to follow the snow?
Tell me, sweet lover; I'll go, oh I'll go!
Morning
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
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.
“Morning” was published in my high school literary journal.
In the Twilight of Her Tears
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
In the twilight of her tears
I saw the shadows of the years
that had taken with them all our joys and cares …
There in an ebbing tide’s spent green
I saw the flotsam of lost dreams
wash out into a sea of wild despair …
In the scars that marred her eyes
I saw the cataracts of lies
that had shattered all the visions we had shared …
As from a ravaged iris, tears
seemed to flood the spindrift years
with sorrows that the sea itself despaired …
impressions of a desert
by michael r. burch, circa age 16
a barren
wasteland
nothing grows
from the sky
molten gold
heats, congeals
oases vanish
or waver
,unreal,
even scorpions
languish
somber
mountains
shift and merge
dustbowl seas
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
As the Flame Flowers
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-20
As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame,
arches leaves skyward, aching for rain,
but it only encounters wild anguish and pain
as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem.
Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem
reaches through night, through the staggering pain,
for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain,
as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame.
Mesmerized by a distant crescent-shaped gem
which glistens like water though drier than sand,
the flower extends itself, trembles, and then
dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind.
The flower aflame yet entranced by the moon is, of course, a metaphor for destructive love and its passions.
Ashes
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
A fire is dying;
ashes remain …
ashes and anguish,
ashes and pain.
A fire is fading
though once it burned bright …
ashes once embers
are ashes tonight.
“Ashes” is a companion poem to “As the Flame Flowers,” written the same day, I believe.
still
by michael r. burch, circa age 21
ur eyes are bluer than midnight
—bluer, darker, more magic still—
and ur lips are sweeter than honey
—sweeter, warmer, more thrilling still—
ur touch is gentler than raindrops
—gentler, kinder, more nurturing still—
yet UR more elusive than moonlight
never once known and not still.
In dreams like these
by Michael R. Burch, age 26
In dreams like these, vexed seas engage
and, gasping, grapple—wave to wave—
while, farther off, dark storm clouds rise …
I seek affection in your eyes
and long for laughter on your lips.
I trace your cheeks with fingertips
that yearn to show you how I feel,
yet tremble that this seems so real.
In dreams like these faint stars, enraged,
decline to warm the anguished waves
while, further off, a storm ensues …
Melissa, oh my love, I use
my poetry to keep you near
when you are more than miles away
and dreams to drive away despair;
return to me, and this time, stay.
I wrote this poem during a troubled time in my first live-in relationship.
In fantasies
by Michael R. Burch, age 26
In fantasies I see you smile
a wistful smile, as though to please;
you touch my heart … I yearn and ache.
I wish that you were here with me.
In fantasies I dream of times
when you and I were all alone;
anxiety seemed distant then,
much closer now that you have gone.
In fantasies I have you now,
I kiss your lips and hold you near,
and all the world is brilliant light
commingling both joy and fear …
Return again; let dawn appear.
“In fantasies” was written the same day as “In dreams like these.”
jasbryx
by michael r. burch, circa age 16
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 “Jasbryx” in high school, under the influence of e. e. cummings, around age 16.
The love we shared
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-24
The love we shared was lukewarm wine;
we drank until the cup ran dry
and then we filled it once again …
fierce passions bubbled at the brim.
And when the bottle, too, ran dry,
we stomped our hearts to brew champagne;
pale liquid love flew forth like rain …
we thought to drink worth all the pain.
And, O, the ecstasies we knew
as long as wine gleamed in the cup,
but when our spirits were consumed,
leaving not a single drop,
we tasted bitter dregs at last
and learned that love was not enough.
Lying
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
Lying here beside you, I cannot meet your eyes,
and yet, somehow, I still can see the tears
welling up and glistening, blue,
a part of me, a part of you . . .
a part of all we've been throughout the years.
Now the night is dark and fading into darkness deeper still,
and your body shakes beside me as you weep,
but what am I to say to you—
a pleasing lie, the painful truth?
I close my eyes and wish that I could sleep.
My grandfather's hills
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
My grandfather lies at the foot of an oak
far from the beaten path,
and never before has a spirit so free
lain fettered in sleep.
But though he lies and walks no more,
I see his eyes in the setting of the sun
and I hear his voice when the sap runs,
for these are an old man's hills.
Don't tell me the government "owns" them,
for the government didn't live them
and breathe them and roam them—
only he did.
Don't tell me the government "regulates" them,
when seventy years
of his sweat and his blood and his tears
flow through the waters of these hills
to nourish the trees …
No, these
are an old man's hills.
No one knew them as he did—
every hole where the woodchucks hid,
every nest where the blue jays lived—
and nobody loved them
as much as he loved them.
Only he cared when the flood waters killed
the tiny buds and the blades of grass
that grew beyond the fields.
And only he cared when the last bear died,
caught killing livestock.
"The oldest bear ever lived,"
he'd brag, "and the smartest."
Though we'd often hear it trip and crash
against the trash cans.
These are an old man's hills,
and they will never be the same
without his loving hand
gently transplanting shrubs and trees
that surely would have died
in the rocky, shopworn land.
Yes, these are an old man's hills,
and his eyes were the blue of the autumn skies
he knew so well even after he went blind.
"There's a few wispy clouds to the west today,
fadin' away, ain't they, boy?"
he'd ask me, and of course he was right.
"Sure are, 'pa," I'd reply,
and a smile would crease his face
and a warmth would pour out of his soul,
for he loved his hills.
Don't say that someday
the wind and the rain
will weather away
his mark from the land—
the well that he dug
and the wall that he built
and the fields that he planted
with his two callused hands.
A memory cannot wither away
when it’s reborn in the songs of the raucous jays
and heard within the laughing waters
of the sea's silver daughters.
An old man lives within these hills, although he walks no more;
I have often heard his voice within the winter's stormy snore;
and I’ve seen his eyes flash sometimes in the bluest summer sky;
and I’ve heard his silent laughter in my newborn baby's cry.
Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)
I believe "My Grandfather's Hills" and "Twelve-Thirty" were written on the same day, or very close to each other.
Twelve-Thirty
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
How cold the nights become so quickly;
now a small fire does little to quench
the winter's thirst for warmth.
Sometimes it seems that all my life
has been an endless winter:
the longer it grew, the more of me it demanded …
and time goes slowly when a man's strength
is not enough to meet his needs.
Tonight I feel an old man
creeping into my bones,
willing to die and sleep and never dream,
and I accept him,
not because I wish to lie and live a life of peaceful ease
until I die,
but because I am too weak and too weary
to wish it otherwise …
and a man is so very close to the edge
when he lacks the strength to wish.
Long ago, when I was young,
I would run and fall and cry
and not give up.
But now it is twelve-thirty,
the darkest hour of the night,
and I am at the darkest point
that I have ever known in life.
So even as the frigid winds
pass silently across the hills,
I feel my spirit sigh within
and steal into its cell.
No longer does it venture forth
to dare new feats and find its fate,
but it lies asleep throughout the night
and does not awake except to eat
a little more of my life away.
Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)
Clown
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16
My “friends” often remind me
that I am a sluggard, a fool.
They say that I resemble a clown
and I suppose it is true
that I do.
There’s no need to mince words,
for I know how ugly I am.
And though I always tell myself
that I don’t give a ****,
I do.
How can I say that which I must
—“Embrace me. Shelter me. Be mine”—
when my appearance always
bothers me as much
as it does?
And yet with you I’m sure that I
could live my life and never mind;
just the touch of your lips in the night
could fill my troubled mind
with trust.
Just your presence at my side
could give me all the strength I need;
and your understanding touch
could help my broken heart to heal
a little each day.
But what’s the use? This cannot be
although I wish it so.
My love, you’re far too beautiful
for me to ever have or know
for even a day.
So when you send me upon my way
—a tragic, foolish clown—
you don’t have to struggle to kiss me goodbye.
Don’t give me the runaround.
Just please don’t put me down.
Laughter from Another Room
by Michael R. Burch, circa 18-19
Laughter from another room
mocks the anguish that I feel;
as I sit alone and brood,
only you and I are real.
Only you and I are real.
Only you and I exist.
Only burns that blister heal.
Only dreams denied persist.
Only dreams denied persist.
Only hope that lingers dies.
Only love that lessens lives.
Only lovers ever cry.
Only lovers ever cry.
Only sinners ever pray.
Only saints are crucified.
The crucified are always saints.
The crucified are always saints.
The maddest men control the world.
The dumb man knows what he would say;
the poet never finds the words.
The poet never finds the words.
The minstrel never hits the notes.
The minister would love to curse.
The warrior never knows his foe.
The warrior never knows his foe.
The scholar never learns the truth.
The actors never see the show.
The hangman longs to feel the noose.
The hangman longs to feel the noose.
The artist longs to feel the flame.
The proudest men are not aloof;
the guiltiest are not to blame.
The guiltiest are not to blame.
The merriest are prone to brood.
If we go outside, it rains.
If we stay inside, it floods.
If we stay inside, it floods.
If we dare to love, we fear.
Blind men never see the sun;
other men observe through tears.
Other men observe through tears
the passage of these days of doom;
now I listen and I hear
laughter from another room.
Laughter from another room
mocks the anguish that I feel.
As I sit alone and brood,
only you and I are real.
Leaden-eyed lovers
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
Leaden-eyed lovers, sung to sleep
by your own breathing,
don't your hear the silence despairing,
and the wind deceiving?
Have you never wondered
if there’s more to life
than a dream of love
and a fear of time?
And what if tonight you have had each other
wildly, totally, as only in love?
What if tomorrow you shall have no others—
is once ever enough?
Is anything ever enough?
Can you save enough love to last till tomorrow?
Can you make enough memories to last when you've aged?
And when you've grown old and are weary of burning,
how then will you rage,
ranging, busy seeking a continual change?
You will never rest easy
as long as you fear
the dull encroachment of the coming years.
You will never learn the meaning of love
if you imagine it fading with a gray hair.
Leaden-eyed lovers, dreams so incurious
are bound to mislead.
Open your eyes, look to each other,
pay time no heed.
Offer each other the promise of tomorrow
and perhaps you may see.
Liar
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
Chiller than a winter day,
quieter than the murmur of the sea in her dreams,
eyes softer than the diaphanous spray
of mist-shrouded streams,
you fill my dying thoughts.
In moments drugged with sleep
I have heard your earnest voice
leaving me no choice
save heed your hushed demands
and meet you in the sands
of an ageless arctic world.
There I kiss your lifeless lips
as we quiver in the shoals
of a sea that, endless, rolls
to meet the shattered shore.
Wild waves weep, "Nevermore,"
as you bend to stroke my hair.
That land is harsh and drear,
and that sea is bleak and wild;
only your lips are mild
as you kiss my weary eyes,
whispering lovely lies
of what awaits us there
in a land so stark and bare,
beyond all hope . . . and care.
Lincoln
by Michael R. Burch, age 20
A little child lies sleeping where the wind cannot touch him,
while a flicker from an unseen star, though very, very dim,
now and them creeps through the blinds to gently touch his eyes.
If only he would open them, their forces might comprise!
But still the storm is raging, and still sleep’s bonds hold firm;
although he tosses in his dreams, in bed he merely squirms.
And though sometimes he notices a warmth that wells within,
he cannot understand conflicting omens on the wind.
And still a single pelican he sometimes sees at dawn,
flashing through the heavens; as soon as it is gone,
he hears a strange, vague melody, a strain upon the wind
that never echoes long enough for him to comprehend.
I attended kindergarten and first grade in Lincoln, Nebraska. The pelican refers to my birth in Orlando, Florida. The use of “comprise” is intentional, as in “come together to create something larger.”
Damp Days
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-18
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.
Embryo
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-17
You sail on an ocean of crystalline water
somewhere far beyond where the Hebrides part,
listening for the whispers and murmurs
of a life-giving heart.
Then you glide through the eerie, impregnable darkness
somewhere far beyond the harsh brightness of birth,
listening for a monotonous tremor
that, half-forgotten,
you now remember.
You rest on the surface of silver-tongued waters
somewhere far beyond a life that is lost,
listening to a voice gently calling
you to the coast.
Then you dive through the depths’ strange, unfathomable darkness,
caught somewhere between the beginning and end,
listening for a sound through the stillness,
with a stubborn willfulness,
wondering when.
You laze on a surface of shimmering clearness,
trapped somewhere between fiery sunset and night,
listening for a trumpet to sound
its message bright.
Then you plummet through the unsolvable darkness,
somewhere far beyond any star, moon or sun,
listening for the sound of the laughter
of the gay daughters
of Poseidon.
You bask in the brilliance of cascading raindrops,
somewhere within reach of a life you once lived,
listening for the peal of a trumpet
and a shiver of the sea and the wind.
Then you drop through the depths of an alien ocean,
sluggishly moving through its gravity,
somewhere between the dead and the living,
the dark and the livid,
the end and eternity.
So sail on your ocean of crystal-clear water,
or ride on the crest of a bright tidal wave;
tomorrow, perhaps, the trumpet will call you
back from the grave.
Or crawl through the depths of the pulsating darkness
with the thud of a heartbeat strong in your ears,
and do not worry that you might not awaken;
for your time is not measured in years,
but in changes.
I wrote “Embryo” around the time I wrote “The snowman sleeps under the Sea.”
The snowman sleeps under the sea
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
Beware while bright sunlight, in ardor,
caresses and kisses one arc of the earth,
for others are trapped in the dungeons of night—
crazed victims of an insane demon's mirth.
Beware while the children are playing
under a sun brightly blazing,
for soon they, too, will be paying
for the time they once thought free …
for an ice-capped mountain is swaying
and a snowman sleeps under the sea.
Beware, though life's moments are fleeting,
for, fleet though they may be,
a moment in Hades, I have heard,
can stretch into an eternity.
Beware of the clouds whitely lazing
under a sun brightly blazing,
for soon dark Night will be freed,
her black canopy raising.
Now an ice-caped summit is waving
and an iceman sleeps under the sea.
Beware the snowman, cold as death,
with winter terror on his breath;
if he should touch you, flee, my friend,
or into hell’s cold depths descend.
I believe “The snowman sleeps under the sea” was inspired by the title of the Eugene O’Neill play “The Iceman Cometh” and the biblical idea of hell as bleak, cold “outer darkness.”
M'lady
by Michael R. Burch, age 20
Your nose is freckled like an imp's
and tilts as though to see
what's going on around it.
And you never really sit;
you wriggle, squirm and bounce
as though you were a child …
Well, I think perhaps you are,
but the car is pulling up,
M'lady.
You're never dignified,
yet no matter what I say,
you still will toss your head
and blazing curls, rebellious red,
as though you were a queen
surrounded by her slaves …
Now may I have your hand,
M'lady.
Your eyes are full of mischief,
of a childish sort, no doubt,
and I know what plots you’re thinking
because your eyes keep sinking,
refusing to meet mine.
Don't say it's “just the wine”!
Now may I have this dance,
M'lady.
I'd ask you to behave,
but I know you never shall,
for, like a child, you're stubborn,
refusing to be governed
by any save yourself.
Still, you know I wouldn't change you, even if I could …
Though I'm almost sure I should,
M'lady.
But please pull down your dress!
Man
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
Man levels woodlands to the ground and thinks that makes him "strong."
He lives until he's eighty and he thinks his life is "long."
He flings a tin can to the moon and thinks that makes him "wise."
He thinks he's mastered "logic," yet falls for shysters' lies.
Earth's mountains rise and fall and rise without the aid of man,
and who's lived longer than the sea: what is its lifespan?
Ten thousand meteors reach the moon, yet all they are is dust.
As for the truth, what is it? We've barely scraped the crust.
Man studies anthropology and thinks he's mastered "life."
He fights his wars with capguns and thinks he knows of strife.
He rules the land and braves the sea; he thinks he's over all;
but compared to infant galaxies, he's not old enough to crawl.
For the universe is ageless, and man knows no life but ours;
and what weight hold wars when compared with the gravity of stars?
And can man rule the elements? How can he take on airs,
having only managed one small step on an infinite set of stairs?
Man writes his faulty philosophies, his poetries and songs;
he thinks he's all-important, that his Bibles can't be wrong.
He tells himself he's "thoughtful," that he's "rational" and "wise."
He thinks he'll build an empire that stretches beyond the skies.
He puts himself above the stars; he's sentient, stalwart, brave.
He thinks he'll tame the universe, yet he remains its slave.
More energy than he can use flows each second from the sun.
More space than he imagines lies from here to the next one.
Yes, he speaks in terms of "light-years" but he cannot pass their bar.
He'll be born and die a billion times in one heartbeat of a star.
He's going to conquer time itself! Can he tell me what time is?
Can he imagine his conceit, or the vanity that's his?
The universe is boundless; it knows no end, nor time.
It sings in crackling energy, supernovas are its rhyme.
And the universe can form a sun, but man can't make a tree.
And when we've used up everything, then what will there be?
"Man" appeared in my high school journal the Lantern in 1976.
Born to Run
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17-18
And so you have gone …
gone though you knew how I needed you,
gone though I begged you to stay.
Still, it's better this way—
for neither of us could say goodbye.
Not while harsh summer still steamed heaven's skies,
not while love's embers still flared in the night,
stirred by the winds of the feelings we shared,
not while we were both running scared,
and not even now.
Still, it's better, somehow,
that you left me this way …
I don't think we two could have lasted
even another day.
Oh, sometimes it seems
love was only a dream,
a dream we could never let live,
though we'd have sworn that we had
the first time we met
secretly, sinfully, nervous and wet
with that August night’s heat
under the old covered bridge.
We were always half-lame,
hungry, tired and afraid,
running from this or from that,
our only possessions my pipe and your hat …
my pipe and your hat and the old, ugly cat
who tagged along so many miles,
eying us with a warped, wicked smile
till we drove it away …
And "those were the days."
Yes, those were the days
and those were the nights …
That hot August night I first took you,
bedding you in the damp grass,
your ******* liquid fire in my harsh grasp,
your lips wet and warm;
I had never been with a woman before,
nor you with a man,
and when we had finished neither could stand.
Now I think of those days,
running half-crazed,
living on love and an old frying pan
empty as often as not.
And the cheap, sickening ***
that we bought when we could
never did either of us any good
though we though that it did.
Remember that night when we hid
sixteen hours in the back of a barn
after stealing a car?
It wouldn't even run.
We were the ones who were running …
running, always running, never slowing down,
without thought to direction …
spinning around and around.
Well, you've stopped spinning now;
I wonder if I have.
How many years did we wander?
From sixty-two till seventy-five?
We must have been the last hippies alive! …
I wonder where the others all went.
They must have grown tired of running
and tired of wondering why —
I know you did.
Well, I'm tired of spinning, too,
but I've never learned to stand still.
It's easier to run, though it's hard to refill
on the move.
Well, I guess that I'll be moving on,
hitching a ride and following the sun.
Perhaps you'll regain a life that seemed gone
along with the wind and the snow and the rain;
perhaps the old life can lived once again;
I hope you're not wrong …
I'm sure you're not wrong.
But I've got to move on
and follow this road till its winding is done …
'Cause I think that I was born to run.
I remember writing “Born to Run” after Bruce Springsteen appeared on the cover of TIME in 1975.
Chains
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-21
Roses bloom within your eyes,
bright with laughter, rich with love,
echoing the morning's light,
full of promise, full of life.
And how I long to kiss your eyes,
to taste the salt of love's sweet tears,
to feel the fullness of the years,
to know that you were always near.
How often in the dark of night,
when heaven was a dream we shared,
our eyes would meet and then ignite
into twin flames of fervent light.
And now that time has healed the scars
of wounds we suffered seeking peace,
our chained eyes meet to find release
and, bonded, we are truly free.
Be Strong
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-20
Don't imagine the future will be brighter
when this world is as it is;
don't keep an account of the sorrow
and the pain and the loneliness
you suffer today, hoping tomorrow
will repay you for all you have lost;
don't expect happiness in repayment,
and never complain at its cost,
but seize it while it is with you
and hold it as long as you can;
then, when it is gone, do not mourn it,
though it may never touch you again.
For happiness crumbles to softness;
a man must be hardened by pain.
The ruggedest trees grow in deserts;
only lilies and daisies crave rain.
So dance while the moment is with you,
as desert flowers dance in the sun,
then crawl to the dunes when the wind dies
and the blossom-strewn showers are gone.
Sing while the cords of your heart
snap in the blistering sun;
thank God for the bleak accompaniment
they give you as they, snapping, strum
the bitter song of the dying young.
Rejoice! Rejoice! and, right or wrong,
at least you'll know that you are strong.
Gentle
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
Flowers bend before the wind,
then straighten out to stand again
fair and proud beneath the sun,
catching bright honey as it runs
slowly down the edges
of the sky, then through the hedges,
and, as the daisies shake themselves,
spreading sunlight through the dell,
you take my hand and kiss it,
whispering, "Be gentle."
Clouds pass slowly before the sun,
bowing, then rising and passing on;
and as they cool us with their shadows,
refreshing all the sun-drenched meadows,
the butterflies rejoice, rejoin
their brethren and dance once again,
splendid and holy in the sun.
You kiss my lips and take me
gently in your arms,
and I rejoice in this
most unexpected warmth.
"Be gentle, love, be gentle,"
you whisper from your place
of imprisonment and safety,
clasped in my embrace.
"Yes, I will be gentle,"
is my only reply
as I draw you nearer
and hold you dearer
than the mountains hold the sky,
gently kissing your eyes.
I hold you
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
I hold you in the darkness, and the night that seemed so long
when I was young and restless—so restless, strong and young—
seems fleeting when I'm with you, yet endless when I'm not,
and I think, "Soon she'll be leaving," and I tremble at the thought.
Then the walls close in around me and my fears begin to grow
and the tears course down my cheeks and then, like rivers melting snow,
they form the lines that Time did not, and there, upon my face,
I feel the wrinkles sagging, dragging me to Death's embrace.
But the moonlight sparkles on your lips, and you whisper, "I won't go,"
and my wrinkles disappear, as do those rivers, into snow,
and the firelight crackles in your hair that burns a darker red,
and you kiss me as you lead me gently back toward our bed.
Ghosts of the Shawnee
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
I sleep in moodless blue of starry skies,
lost to a dream of many ancient things;
death's rivers seek to drench me as they rise,
but I stand above them, watching through the night,
for a maiden more mysterious than spring.
As I dream in deepest blue of brooding seas,
a flow past flooding washes down the night.
O, I sip the bitter nectar of Shawnee
and wonder at the blazing northern light
that flares as though some day it might ignite.
Then shadows steeped in starlight call my name
and I know, somehow, that she at last has come.
There I rise to meet her as she enters in
with eyes aflame and hair as black as sin,
and I kiss her though I long to turn and run.
I held a heart in my outstretched hand
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
I held a heart in my outstretched hand;
it was ****** and red and raw.
I ripped it and tore it;
I gnashed it and gnawed it;
I gored it with fingers like claws,
but it never missed a beat
of the heartfelt song it sang.
There my bruised heart wept in my open palm
and the gore dripped down my wrist;
I reviled it,
defiled it;
I gave it a twist
and wrung it dry of blood;
still it beat with a hearty thud,
and its movement was warm with love.
But I flung it into the ditch and walked
angrily, cruelly away …
There it lay in the dust
with a ****** crust
caking the crimson stain
that my claw-like fingers had made,
and its flesh was grey with death.
Oh, I cannot say why,
but I turned and I cried,
and I lifted it once again,
holding it to my cheek,
where it began to beat,
but to a tiny, tragic measure
devoid of trust or pleasure.
Then it kissed my fingers and sighed,
begging forgiveness even as it died.
Now that was many years ago,
and I am wiser, for I know
that a heart can last out any pain,
but cannot bear to be alone.
And my lifeless heart is wiser too,
having seen the way a careless man
can take his being into his hands
and crush it into a worthless ooze.
I saw the sun rising
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
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.
It's just another Monday
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 25
Now it's a sad, sad, sad, sad day …
for all the stars have faded away,
but all the people turn and they say,
"It's just another Monday."
"It's just another Monday."
“Jack” was inspired by the plight of a schoolmate who had a rare disorder that made it dangerous for him to exercise. However, the details of the poem are imagined; we didn’t grow up together and weren’t close friends.
Jack
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
I remember playing in the mud
Septembers long ago
when you and I were young
with dreams of things to come
and hopes for feet of snow.
And at eight years old the days were long
—long enough to last—
and when it snowed
the smiles would show
behind each pane of glass.
At ten years old, the fights were few,
the future—far away,
and when the snow showed on the streets
there was always time to play . . .
almost always time to play.
And when you smiled your eyes were green,
but when you cried they seemed ice blue;
do you remember how we cried
as little boys will do—
trying hard not to, because we wanted to be "cool"?
At twelve years old, the world was warm
and hate had never crossed our minds,
and in twelve short years we had not learned
to hear the fearsome breath of Time
behind.
So, while the others all looked back,
you and I would look ahead.
It's such a shame that the world turned out
to be what everyone said
it would.
And junior high was like a dream—
the girls were mesmerized by you,
sighing, smiling bright and sweet,
as we passed them on the street
on our way to school.
And we did well; we never tried
to make straight "A's,"
but always did.
And just for kicks, when we saw cops,
we ran away and hid.
We seldom quarreled, never fought,
for in our way,
we loved each other;
and had the choice been ours to make,
you would have been my elder brother.
But as it was, it always is—
one's life is lost
before it's lived.
And when our mothers called our names,
we ran away and hid.
At fifteen we were back-court stars,
freshman starters on the team;
and every time we drove and scored
the cheerleaders would scream
our names.
You played tennis; I played golf;
you debated; I ran track;
and whenever grades came out,
you and I would lead the pack.
I guess that we just had the knack.
Whatever happened to us, Jack?
Olivia
by Michael R. Burch
for Olivia Newton-John
Turn your eyes toward me
though in truth you do not see,
and pass once again before me
though you are distant as the sea.
And smile once again, smile for me,
though you do not know my name …
and pass once again before me,
and fade, and yet remain.
Remain, for my heart still holds you
—soft chords in a dying song!— *
Stay, for your image still lingers
though it will not linger long.
And smile, for my heart is breaking
though you do not know my name.
Laugh, for your image is fading
though I wish it to remain.
But die, for I cannot have you,
though I want you, this fell night;
darken, and fade and be silent
though your voice and aspect are light.
Yet frown, for you cannot touch me
though I have touched you now;
then go, for you have not met me,
and never, never shall.
Phantasmagoria
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
The night was a wrinkled pachyderm;
grey-skinned and monstrous, it covered the earth
till the sun, like a copper-mouthed serpent,
swallowed it slowly, giving dawn birth.
Behold the kaleidoscopic
changing of nighttime to day;
the sun, like a ravenous viper,
has frightened the pale moon away.
Intricate Melody
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Late in the sunlight silence,
a shower of silver over the sea
waltzed through the waves like a sad melody …
She had eyes
like September,
flaming amber,
searing autumn sunshine.
She sang, "Love,
I don't remember,
was I yours,
or were you mine?"
And then in an stunning sunset,
a flare of wildfire striking the trees
rekindled the flames of an old memory …
She had dreams
like silver forests
full of fancy
dancing in the shadows.
She sighed, "Love
was working for us,
now it's gone,
I wonder how."
But off the arcing evening,
a frail trace of sunset recharging the breeze
whispered the words of an old mystery …
Though she sleeps
in silver forests
set in mountains
towering to the heavens,
still her heart
beats to the chorus
of one love,
love for one man.
“Intricate Melody” was inspired by “Unchained Melody” as covered by Bobby Hatfield of the Righteous Brothers in 1965.
Marie
by Michael R. Burch, age 17
Play your harp for me, Marie;
merrily let it sing.
Marry me and we will be
happily together then.
Marry me and we will be
as happy as the jay;
and I shall give you everything
if only you will play
for me today.
Play your harp for me, Marie;
make merry while we may!
Melt my heart and move my soul;
you shall, if you'll but play.
O, play with me and we will be
together for some time,
and if you'll sing me songs as sweet
as grapes when they combine,
then I will sing you mine …
Marie, let’s play!
oh, say that you are mine
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
your lips are sweeter than apricot brandy;
your breath invites with a pleasant warmth;
you sweep through the darkest corridors of my soul—
a waltzing maiden born of a dream;
you brush the frailest fibre of my hopes
and i sink to my knees—
a quivering beggar.
your eyes are bluer than aquamarine
set ablaze by the sun;
your lips as inviting as cool streams
to a wanderer of desert lands;
i sleep in your hand,
safe in the warmth of your tender palm,
lost in the fragrance of your soft skin.
WE make love as deep as purple pine forests,
your laughter richer and sweeter than honey
poured in a pitcher of peaches and cream,
your malice more elusive than the memory of a dream,
your cheeks tenderer than eiderdown
and cooler than snow-fed streams;
you touch my lips with the lightest of kisses
and my soul sings.
Natashe
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
I sleep through moodless blue of unstarred skies …
dark waves weave patterns; wild sequestered seas
grow huge and heavy, foddered by the breeze
that blows them down.
I drink Natashe;
naval frigates freeze
in agony across the frigid seas
of death's domain.
She brings me pain,
and, comfortless, I toss
like one who has slept too long
on a slab-hard bed.
O, I stir myself
and groggily I groan
just as Natashe said
I surely would.
God, these dreams are no good;
I'd much rather live.
Why did you leave?
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
Your touch was the warmth of a summer day,
the revivingness of showers in May,
the festivity of the coming of fall,
the sparkle of winter's icicled walls,
the splendor of sunset,
the furor of dawn,
as soft as a feather,
as clear as a pond
enchantingly blue.
Your laughter was lilac and lemon and low;
your tears were dimensions of sorrow untold;
your kiss was enchanting—slow dancing and wine;
your love was a lyric in search of a rhyme;
your eyes were green islands;
your curls formed a sea
of dark, dancing ringlets …
Love, why did you leave?
Happiness
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 13-14
A friend of mine had lost his wife.
He said, “Her death has wrecked my life;
now all that I have left is sorrow!
How can I bear to face tomorrow?”
And he told me, “Happiness is like a bubble:
what’s fine now will soon be trouble.
Today you may be sailing high,
soaring magically through the sky.
But soon you’ll plummet back to earth,
and you’ll find your problems only worse
on the sad, sad day your bubble bursts.”
But once an (alleged) wise man told me,
“This is how it was meant to be:
for, as the sun and rain make all things grow,
so all men need *both happiness and sorrow.”
And he told me, “Happiness is the warm sunshine;
when it appears, the world seems fine.
But when pain’s chilling rains appear,
warmth soon dissolves; the world grows drear.
Yet soon the sun will shine again
to drive away the dismal rain!”
How then I sang, how I exclaimed:
“Oh, happiness is like a bubble!
Double, double, toil and trouble!
Bright roses bloom amid the rubble!
When shall I get my manly stubble,
or will I be forever gullible?
If present joys cause future pain,
does anyone care if I abstain?”
"Happiness" is the first longish poem I remember writing, around age 13-14, and I consider it my first real poem.
EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART III
Sarjann
by Michael R. Burch , circa age 16-17
What did I ever do
to make you hate me so?
I was only nine years old,
lonely and afraid,
a small stranger in a large land.
Why did you abuse me
and taunt me?
Even now, so many years later,
the question still haunts me:
what did I ever do?
Why did you despise me and reject me,
pushing and shoving me around
when there was no one to protect me?
Why did you draw a line
in the bone-dry autumn dust,
daring me to cross it?
Did you want to see me cry?
Well, if you did, you did.
… oh, leave me alone,
for the sky opens wide
in a land of no rain,
and who are you
to bring me such pain? …
This is one of the few "true poems" I've written, in the sense of being about the "real me." I had a bad experience with an older girl named Sarjann (or something like that), who used to taunt me and push me around at a bus stop in Roseville, California (the "large land" of "no rain" where I was a "small stranger" because I only lived there for a few months). I believe this poem was written around age 16-17, but could have been started earlier.
Shadows
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
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, mirthless clowns—
we merge, emerge, submerge … then drown.
We drown in shadows starker still,
shadows of the somber hills,
shadows of sad selves 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” appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun.
Snapdragons: A Pleasant Fable with a Very Happy Ending
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
We threaded snapdragons
through her dark hair
and drank berry wine
straight from the vine.
We were too young
for love (or strong drink)
but her lips were warm
and her eyes so charmed,
that I robbed a Brinks
and bought her minks.
The Road Always Taken
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
We have come to the time of the parting of ways;
now love, we must linger no longer, amazed
at the fleetness with which we have squandered our days.
We have come to the time of the closing of scrolls;
beyond us, indecipherable Eternity rolls …
and I fear for our souls.
We have come to the point of no fork, no return;
above us, a few cooling stars dimly burn …
And yet I still yearn.
Tonight how I miss you
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
Tonight how I miss you, as never before,
though morning is only a moment away.
Oh, I know I should sleep, but I lie here, distraught,
as you flit through my mind—such a wild, haunting thought.
And love is a dream that I lately imagined—
a dream, yet so real I can touch it at times.
But how to explain? I can hardly envision
myself without you, like a farce without mimes.
Deep, deep in my soul lurks a creature of fire,
dormant, not living unless you are near;
now, because you are gone, he grows dim, and in dire
need of your presence, he wavers, I fear …
How he and I wish, how we wish you were here.
The Insurrection of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
She was my Shilo, my Gethsemane;
on a green ***** of moss she nestled my head
and breathed upon my insensate lips
the fierce benedictions of her ecstatic sighs …
But the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears!
Years I abided the eclectic assaults of her flesh …
She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed;
she undressed with delight for her ministrations
when all I needed was a moment’s rest …
She anointed my lips with strange dews at her perilous breast;
the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel.
I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew:
the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh.
The sun in retreat left its barb in a maelstrom of light.
Love’s last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard.
Yesterday My Father Died
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
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 know, 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 few 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 …
What is this "love?"
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
What is this "love" that drives men to such lengths
as to betray their hearts and turn away
from all resolve that once had granted strength
and courage to them in life's harshest days?
What is this "love" that causes men to shun
the friends and family they once held so dear?
What causes them to spurn the brilliant sun,
to seek some gloomy cloister’s bitter tears?
What is this "love" that urges men to yield
their hearts' most cherished hopes and will’s restraint?
What causes them to throw down reason’s shields,
to spill their blood, till sense at last grows faint?
This is the weakness in us, one and all—
the love of love, the will to kneel, the hope, perhaps, to fall.
“What is this ‘love’" was one of my earliest sonnets.
You'll never know
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
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 flee, hidden;
bright lightning rails
against mankind;
wild waves reach out
toward scorched comets;
but you do not see.
You must be blind.
Sundown
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
Sunset’s shadows touch your eyes
She’d rather have the truth than lies.
wherein I find no alibis.
And that seems strange … I wonder why.
Now you and I have come this far,
She seems so lovely and so calm.
but further off, no guiding star.
And yet I know that she is scarred.
But without stars how can we see
What’s best for her is best for me.
ourselves, or where our paths fork free?
And yet I loved her so sincerely!
I think that we should end it here
How can love end without a tear?
and I can see that you agree.
What’s best for her is best for me.
Sunrise
by Michael R. Burch, age 17
I ran toward a meadow
that shimmered, all ablaze,
and laughed to feel the buttercups
my skin so softly graze.
My soul was full of passion,
my eyes were full of light,
as sunrise crept
into the depths
of heart that had harbored only night.
I leapt to catch a butterfly,
then let it go again,
and its glorious flight
into the light
caused me to clutch my pen
and dash back to my darkling room
to let the sunrise in,
but not through open shutters,–
through poems and psalms and hymns.
Here “darkling” is a rare word that appears in more than one masterpiece of poetry.
Spring dream time
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
There are no dreams of springtime tomorrow
left to my heart now that winter has come,
nor passion to shine like a sun in ascendance
to fierce incandescence; my spirit is numb.
How shall I write when the words hold no meaning?
How shall I feel, when all feeling is gone?
How shall I seek what has never had presence
or gather an essence I never have known?
How to recapture what I once believed in,
lost to strange seasons of riotous sun?
How to rekindle the heart's effervescence,
the spirit's resplendence, when springtime has flown?
How will I write what has never been written?
How can this ink leap from pen into poem?
How can I believe what I know has no feasance,
reducing the distance from fancied to known?
Are there no others who dream not to lessen,
not to wilt before winter, not to weaken—not some
who **** to hellfire this winter of demons,
imagining seasons of springtime to come?
Tell me what i am
by michael r. burch, circa age 14-16
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.
You didn't have time
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
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.
You have become the morning light
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
You have become the morning light
that floods from heaven, fair upon
the dewed expanses of each lawn …
I lift my face, for you are dawn.
And in the warmth that, fanned to flame,
I feel against my naked flesh,
I find the fierceness of desire—
the passions of each wild caress.
Now how I long to make you mine
in such a moment, as your *******
burn like fire in my hands,
forming flame from drunkenness.
And if in ardor for the sun
or for your touch or for the wine,
my lips should crush yours in a kiss
so harsh and heated, tears combine
with sweat and anguish till beads form—
salt beads of passion on your brow,
then lover, we will burn with dawn,
for in your eyes the sun shines now.
When I was in my heyday
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
When I was in my heyday,
I howled to see the moon;
the wail of a wolf,
shrill, rising … then gruff
echoed through night, such an impassioned tune!
When I was in my heyday,
hearts fluttered at my feet;
I gathered them in
like blossoms the wind
had slaughtered and flung, but their fragrance was sweet.
When I was in my heyday,
I cursed the cage of stars
that blocked me from rising
above them and flying
in rapture, uncaptured, beyond their bright bars.
When I was in my heyday,
my dreams were a dazzling mist
that baffled my vision
and veiled farthest heaven,
but what did I care? I clenched fire in my fist!
The Swing
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
I.
There was a Swing
tied to a tall elm
that reached out over the river.
There, I used to send you flying
out into the autumn air
till you began to shiver,
then I’d gather you in again,
hugging you to keep you warm.
How I loved the scent of your hair
and the flush of your cheeks!
I’d dream of you for weeks
when you were at Vassar and I was at Mayer.
Then, come the summer,
how I loved to see your knee-length skirt
billowing about you,
revealing your legs,
aloed and darkly lovely,
and to feel your ample hips
—so soft, so full, so warm—
when I touched them,
“accidentally,” of course,
while swinging you.
You always knew,
I’m sure of that now.
And you never let me go too far.
But your kisses were warm.
Oh, I remember—your kisses were warm!
II.
I’d often dream of ******* you,
and once, just once,
when I was helping you down from the Swing,
I touched your breast, and you paused.
Hurriedly, I unbuttoned your blouse as you stood
breathless, and with good cause,
after riding the Swing as wild as I swung you.
Your bra was Immaculate White,
your ******* warm and firm
beneath the thin material.
You said nothing until I flipped
your skirt up, then slipped
my fingers inside the waistband
of your matchless cotton *******
to feel your hips,
so full and so inviting,
and then your nether lips.
At which you said,
“That’s enough,” gently,
and it was.
III.
Now I think of those days
and I wonder
why I ever let you go.
I remember one dark hour
when, standing in the snow,
you told me to take you
or to let you go.
I was a fool.
Proud, and a fool.
All you asked was for us to be married
after we finished school.
But I was a fool.
IV.
But I always loved you—
my wild risk taker!
My sweet gentle ******* of elms,
my lovely heartbreaker.
V.
Now you’re a dancer,
and a fine one, I’m told.
I saw you, once, in men’s magazine.
You hair was still maple
with highlights of gold,
your eyes just as green.
But somehow you didn’t quite seem
the wild sweet rambunctious angel of my dreams
who’d defy men’s eyes
and the edicts of heaven
simply to Swing.
The Latter Days: an Update
by Michael R. Burch, age 22
1.
Little Richard grew up. Now
the world is not the same, somehow.
And Elvis Presley passed away—
an idol but with feet of clay.
The Beatles left have shorn their locks;
John Lennon died and Heaven rocks,
though Yoko Ono still remains.
(The earth is full of passing pains.)
2.
The wall is being built, we hear,
although the reason’s far from clear.
But there’s one thing we know for sure:
there’s never money for the poor.
There are, however, trillions for
the one percent, and waging war.
’Cause Tweety has an “awesome” plan:
kiss Putin’s *** and nuke Iran!
3.
The Hebrew prophets long ago
warned of a Trump of Doom, and so
we wonder if this “little horn”
may be the Beast who earned their scorn.
But surely not! Trump claims to be
our Savior, true Divinity!
So please relax, admire his rod,
and trust this Orange Demigod!
I wrote the first stanza at age 22 in 1980, then updated the rest of the poem after Trump became president in 2016.
there is peace where i am going
by michael r. burch, circa age 15
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 believe "those who sleep the sleep of Death" was written around the same time and under the same influence.
those who sleep the sleep of Death
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
those who sleep the sleep of Death
sleep to wake no more …
they lie upon a brackish shore
where Time's tides lash the rugged rocks
with waves that whip like ragged locks
of long, unkempt white hair
against the storm-filled air,
but nothing can disturb them there.
those who dream the dream of Death
fail to see how Time
pulses through the slime
of earth’s dark fulsome loam,
rank, rotting flesh and filthy foam …
for, standing far off from the shore,
She readies to attack once more
those She had but killed before.
those whom Death awakens
awaken to a sleep
that is far more deep
than any they had known before;
for there upon that ravaged shore,
they do not see how Time now drives
to destroy the fragile lives
of those who still survive.
The Song of the Wanderers
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Through many miles of space we have flown;
no life but ours have we known.
No other race have we seen in the stars,
nor under any sun that has shone.
None in the shadows, none in the sun,
none in the rainbows that brighten dark skies,
none in the valleys, none in the hills,
none in the rapids that ripple and rise.
Our quest is near ending; the stars have been searched;
we alone wander this vast universe.
For every green planet, every blue sky
we have encountered is barren of life.
We are alone, unless below
a creature exists somewhere in the snow.
The planet beneath us lies shackled by night.
The stars deck its mountains in garments of light.
Close to us, its moon hovers ghostly in flight.
Somewhere below us, perhaps there is life.
Come, let us seek life, before we return
to that fair planet for which our hearts yearn.
Here snow descends as the wind whistles down
from dark frozen northlands where glaciers abound.
See, on the far shoreline, pale mists compound.
Notice, companions,
how the sun, like a fiery stallion,
rears upon the eastern rim
of a mountain range haggard, weathered and grim.
A pity, perhaps, that at last it grows dim.
But there's no life here, and so we must leave
this desolate planet alone to its grief.
No, wait just a moment! What can this be …
concealed by dense fog here, surrounded by sea,
some type of vessel, storm-tossed, to and fro?
Yes, I believe, I'm sure that it's so!
Here near this shoreline, half-buried in snow,
lies a wrecked vessel
dripping salt water and seaweed tresses.
Make haste; let us hurry,
the sea in its fury
is dashing it upon the rocks!
It may well be that at last
we will see some relic of another race's past.
What's this? It's no vessel, no ship of the seas.
It's fashioned of stone and could not use the breeze.
It has no engine, no portals, no helm,
and yet it resembles … some demon from hell.
It must be a statue, with horns on its head,
long, flowing hair and a torch in its hand.
Broken and shattered, cast off by the sea,
tonight it erodes in this frozen dark sand.
No, come, let us leave, it was fashioned by wind,
molded by water and wasted therein.
Come, let us leave it, to hasten back home;
too long have we wandered, thus, lost and alone.
The Liberty calls us; we cannot delay.
Let us return now, and be underway.
Through many miles of space we have flown.
No other life have we known.
And now that we know that we are alone,
we search for our ancient home.
Somewhere ahead she awaits our return,
decked in bright garments of green;
for eons of time we have not seen her face,
and yet she has haunted our dreams.
Somewhere ahead lies the planet we left
when we set out the depths of deep space to explore,
and now how we long to dash through her streams
and sleep on her bright, sandy shores.
The last cold, dark planet lies dying behind us;
no others are left to be searched.
The Liberty soon her last descent shall make
when we relocate Mother Earth!
The spinster waltz
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
The spinster waltz is playing
in sad strains from other rooms,
but here, where love beams, reigning,
wedding bells greet brides and grooms.
O, the bachelors are a-waltzing,
but the married do not mind,
for they whirl with one another
to a far more hectic time.
And as they feel the music
seek to slow their breakneck thoughts,
they murmur of the things they've gained,
regretting what they've lost.
The offering
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
Tonight, if you will taste the tempting wine
and come to sit beside me, I will say
the words that you have thought that you might hear,
the words that I have feared that I might say.
And if you sit beside me with the goblet in your hand
and offer me a sip to give me strength,
then I will match your offer with an offer of my own,
and, offering, so offer back that strength.
And if I say, "I love you," don't laugh as though I jest,
for a jester I am not, as you can see.
And if I offer anything, I'll offer you myself —
the man I am and not the man you see.
For though you see successes and a man of many dreams,
I see a pauper throwing dreams away;
yes, once I dreamt of many things, but then I saw your face, and since
I dream no more, and dreams can fade away.
So if I offer you this ring of burnished gold that burns and sings,
please take it for the thought and not the gold.
And if I offer you my life, please understand, my love, don't sigh
and tell me that you do not care for gold.
I'm offering my love, my life, my joys, my cares, my fears, my nights,
the dreams that I have dreamt and dream no more,
I'm offering my soul, not gold … I'm offering my thoughts, my hopes …
I'm offering myself and nothing more.
And if this offer seems enough; if you can be content with love
and cherish one who loves you as I do,
then promise that I'll be your dreams, your hopes, your joys, your cares, all things
that you could ever want or want to do.
But if you cannot promise so, then let us say goodbye and go;
I cannot love you less than I do now,
but I would rather bear this pain and never, ever love again
than burn in hope and fear as I do now.
There Must Be Love
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
O, take me to
earth’s tallest mountain
and hurl me out
into the dark;
though I may fall
ten thousand miles,
still I’ll not say
this life is all.
I’ll shout, There’s more!
There must be more!
There must be Love.
Then take me to
faith’s highest fancy
and show me all
there is to see;
though all the world
bow prone before me,
still I’ll not say
this world is all.
I’ll pray, There’s more.
There must be more.
There must be Love.
Then lay me down
beside dark waters
where dying trees
shed lifeless leaves,
and though I shiver
with the knowledge
of my death,
I shall not grieve.
And when you say,
There must be more …
then I shall say,
There is … believe!
I’ll take your hand,
and we’ll believe.
This is how I love you
Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Just to hold you as you sleep with your head against my shoulder,
just to kiss your sweet lips and to know that you are mine,
fills my heart with a sense of perfect completeness
of a light and airy sweetness,
like the scent of chilled white wine.
For the love with which I love you is a pure and sacred thing,
like the first touch of morning, when she bends to kiss her flowers;
for then the dancing daisies and the gleaming marigolds
reach out to receive her, each in turn, throughout dawn’s hours.
And the light with which she touches them
becomes their life; each stalk and stem
are born of her who gives herself
unselfishly. And to her spell
the flowers bend, full willingly,
with sometimes a hushed and fervent plea,
"Touch me, O sun, touch me!"
The Rose
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Oh Rose, thou art sick!”—William Blake
Where life begins the seeds of death
are likewise planted, but with faith
the rose's roots combat the weeds’
to seek the nourishment it needs.
Yet in its heart an insect breeds.
Where dreams take form the flower grows,
as do the weeds, and still the rose
is gay and lovely, though her thorns
are sharp! The casual touch she scorns …
yet insects eat her leaves in swarms.
When passion fails the rose grown old,
no longer are her petals bold—
in flaming glory bright-arrayed.
In weeds of death at last is laid
the rose by insects first betrayed.
Say You Love Me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22-25
Joy and anguish surge within my soul;
contesting there, they cannot be controlled;
now grinding yearnings grip me like a vise.
Stars are burning;
it's almost morning.
Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed
parade before me, forming formless scenes;
and now, at last, the feeling grows
as stars, declining,
bow to morning.
For you are music in my undreamt dreams,
rising from some far-off lyric spring;
oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing.
Stars on fire
form a choir.
Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes;
you laugh at me as dancing starlets die.
You touch me so and still I don't know why . . .
But say you love me.
Say you love me.
Sheila
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
When they spoke your name,
"Sheila,"
I imagined a flowing mane
of reddish-orange hair
tinged with fire
and blazing eyes of emerald green
spangled with desire.
When I saw you first,
Sheila,
I felt an overwhelming thirst
for the taste of your lips
dry my lips and parch my tongue …
and, much worse,
I stuttered and stammered and lisped
in your presence.
But when I kissed you long,
Sheila,
I felt the morning come
with temperamental sun
to drive away the night
with reddish-orange light
and distant-sounding drums.
Now I will love you long,
as long as longing is,
Sheila.
The breathing low and the stars alight
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
Silently I'll steal away
into dank jungles pocked with night.
I'll give no thought to the coming day;
the breathing low and the stars alight
alone shall mark my passage through
in search of plateaus of delight.
Through valleys filled with shrieks of fright
I may pass; through vales of woe
I may move with footsteps light.
Who knows what trials I’ll undergo
at the hands of demon Night
before that fiend I overthrow?
And yet at last the ebb and flow
of time and tide will draw me tight
within Death’s grasp; then I shall know
the freedom of life's last respite,
safe from dread nightmares and despite
the breathing low and the black disquiet.
Parting
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-17
I was his friend, and he was mine; I knew him just a while.
We laughed and talked and sang a song; he went on with a smile.
He roams this land in search of life, intent on being "free."
I stay at home and write my poems and work on my degree.
I hope to be a writer soon, and dream of wild acclaim.
He doesn't know what he will do; he only knows he loves the wind and rain.
I didn't say goodbye to him; I know he'll understand.
I'll never write a word to him; I don't know that I can.
I knew he couldn't stay, and so … I didn't even ask.
We both knew that he had to go; I tried to ease his task.
We both know life's a winding road, with potholes every mile,
and if we hit a detour, well, it only brings vague sadness to our smiles.
One day he's bound to stop somewhere; perhaps he'll take a wife,
but for now he has to travel on, to seek a more "natural" life.
He knows such a life's elusive, but still he has to try,
just as I must write my poems although none please my eye.
For poetry, like life itself, is something most men rue;
still, we meet disappointments with a smile, and smile until the time that they are through.
He left me as I left a friend so many years ago;
I promised I would call him, but I never did; you know,
it's not that I didn't love him; it's just that gone is gone.
It makes no sense to prolong the end; you cannot stop the sun.
And I hope to find a lover soon, and I hope she'll love me too;
but perhaps I'll find disappointment; I know that it's a rare girl who is true.
I've been to many foreign lands, but now my feet are fast,
still, I hope to travel once again when my college days are past.
Our paths are very different, but we both do what we can,
and though we don't know what it means, we try to "act like men."
We were friends, and nothing more; what more is there to be?
We were friends for just a while … he went on to be "free."
Rose
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
Morning’s buds cling fervently
to the tiny drops of dew
that nourish them sacrificially,
as nature bids them to.
And how each petal cherishes
the tiny silver gems
that satisfy its thirst
and caress its slender stem.
All life comes of sacrifice,
which makes it doubly sweet;
for two lives sacrificed form one
and thus become complete.
Daisies plait the valleys
that give their strength to yield
such a tender host among
the steamy summer fields.
And how the flowers love the earth
that freely gives its life,
kissing and caressing it
throughout the hours of night.
So kiss me and caress me, love,
for you are my fair Rose.
And hold me through the depths of night
and the heights of our repose.
A bee entreats a flower:
a tiny drop is given.
A slender stalk caresses
and gains a speck of pollen.
All beings are dependent
on others being too.
And love cannot exist
except when shared by two.
So kiss me and caress me, love,
for you are my fair Rose.
And hold me through the depths of night
and the heights of our repose.
Spartacus
by Michael R. Burch, age 20
Take the fire
from her eyes
to light the darkening skies
exquisite shades
of blue and jade.
Place an orchid
in her hair
and tell her that you care,
because you do,
you surely do.
Sleep beside her
this last night;
a clover bed, deep green and white,
shall cushion you as leaves sing
sad elegies to fleeting spring.
Sleep beside her
in the dew,
both heartbeats fierce and true,
and praise the gods who give
such hearts, because you live.
Not many do.
So little time
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
There is so little time left to summer,
to run through the fields or to swim in the ponds …
to be young.
There is so little time left till autumn shall come.
There is so little time left for me to be free …
so little time, just *so, so little time.
If I were handsome and brawny and brave,
a love I would make and the time I would save.
If I were happy — not hamstrung, but free —
surely there would be one for me …
Perhaps there'd be one.
There is so little left of the sunshine
although there's much left of the rain …
there is so little left in my life not of strife and of pain.
I seem to remember writing this poem around age 14, in 1972. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976.
Valley of Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
On a haunted moor, awash in starlight,
when all the world lay hushed and still,
while a ghostly orb, traversing the heavens,
bathed every ridge of every hill
in a shower of silver, I happened to spy
a shadow creeping against the sky.
And suddenly the shadow beckoned
with a fair white hand, then called my name!
Out of the haunting mists of midnight,
through webs of ethereal light she came—
the maiden I had wildly wanted,
that had long my heart enchanted.
It seemed to me that the stars shone brighter
as she slipped into my arms,
for they burned within the halo
of her flaxen hair and warmed
the air about us, so that I melted
into the haven of her arms' shelter.
Her fragrance of lilacs enraptured me;
her sparkling eyes beguiled me.
And when my lips found hers that night,
nothing could have defiled me,
or have dragged me down … we began to rise
through the mists and vapors of a spinning sky.
We rose for hours, or so it seemed,
through galaxies of pearl and blue.
She kissed my lips and made me feel
that all I've heard of love is true.
And now, although we're lost,
I never wonder where we are,
for my love and I
wander paths of the sky,
lost in a valley of stars.
We Dance and Dream
by Michael R. Burch, age 25
All the nights we danced it seemed
the stars above were dancing too,
and all the dreams we dared to dream
it seemed were old dreams dreamed anew.
But now no hallowed lovers’ lies
pass our lips or glaze our eyes;
and now no even wilder dreams
cause our lips, with anguished screams,
to pierce the peacefulness of night.
We dance and dream, bereft of light,
content to merely glide…
We kept the dream alive
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
Youthful reflections on the Vietnam War and the “Domino Theory”
So that our nation should not “fall,”
we sacrificed our lives;
we choked back fears
and blinked back tears.
Our skin broke out in hives.
We kept the dream alive.
We counted freedom
and honor worth saving;
a flag waving
against the sky
filled us with pride,
then led us to die.
But was it a lie?
What of the torch?
What of its flame?
We kept it lit through wind and rain.
It brought us woe and bitter pain.
And yet we bore it though it seemed
the vaguest semblance of a dream.
And all around the jungle screamed,
“This is no place for you to die;
the flag you fight for is a lie;
the torch you bear burns bitter flame;
the dream you cherish has no name
but darkest shame …”
We lost our lives,
but to what gain?
Will you walk with me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Will you walk with me a mile down this lane?
for there is something I must say to you.
And, as my feelings cry to be explained,
this silence is a lie, bereft of truth.
As does the bird that sings, I so must tell
the feelings that my heart cannot keep in,
for it must be a sin to speechless dwell
when love entreats the trembling tongue to sing.
And thus I cannot watch you silently,
although I cringe to think that I must speak—
my lisping lips then tremble shamelessly,
my heart grows numb even as my knees go weak—
but now the time has come to not delay,
so listen closely to the words I say …
If I could only hold you through the night,
then wake to find you near me, each new day,
my life would be so full of sheer delight
that I would never notice should you stray.
If I could only kiss your wanton lips
and do so without fear of God's revenge,
then I would even kneel to kiss your whip,
and I would gladly bend to your demands.
For I not only love your loving moods,
fierce kisses and caresses and wild eyes,
but darling, I still love you when you brood.
I love you though you rail at me and lie.
For love is not a passion that should fade;
it burns!—the heat of sunlight on a cage.
This was one of my first sonnets, or "sonnet attempts," written around age 18 as a college freshman in 1976.
Where have all the flowers gone?
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
Where have all the flowers gone
that once shone in your hair
when the sunlight touched them there?
Now summer's fields are dark and bare.
And what of all your lovely curls
that caught the sunlight till a halo
ringed their masses, golden-yellow?
Into ash-grey their fire has mellowed…
Where have all the starlings gone
whose voices blended with your own
in such a wild, emphatic song?
From winter's grasp those birds have flown.
And what of your own voice, my dear?
Those splendid notes I hear no more
which once from your sweet throat did pour.
For now your throat is parched and sore.
Oh, where have all the feelings gone?
We once could name them all—
emotions great and longings small . . .
But now we heed them not at all.
And what of our desire, my love,
which we once wildly bore
and felt at each soul's core?
That passion now is calm, demure.
For time has take all of this
and the little left leaves much to miss.
Were Love to Die
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 24
Were love to die without pained sighs,
without heartaches and brimming eyes,
then tell me—what would love be worth
if, dying, as in being birthed,
it were no more than other words?
Were love to die without a lie,
without attempts to keep it nigh,
then tell me—what would love have been
if, fleeing as in entering,
it was not holy, nor a sin?
Were love to cause no grief, or pain,
and come, then go, what would remain?
And tell me—what would love have left
if, being lost, as being kept,
it did not bless and curse our fate?
Won't you
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
Won't you lie in my arms in the clutches of wine
as dark petals, unfolding, whisper back to the vine?
Won't you dream of that day, as I bring you again
to an anguish, a heartache that throbs without end?
Won't you dream of a day when the ocean grew wild,
raging before us—green cauldron of bile!—
while the passions we shared were stirred by a wind
that later that evening sang softly of sin?
Won't you rise in your yearning and touch me again?
Won't you kiss me and curse me just as you did then?
Won't you hate me and hold me and scold me and say
that you'll never leave me, that this time you'll stay?
O, tonight be my lifeline, re-cresting love’s waves …
won't you rage in my arms as you did in those days?
Won't you be half as gentle as you are rough,
then spare me, care for me, saying, "This is enough!"
Won't you lie in my arms with a lie on your lips
and say to me, "Darling, there's nothing like this!"
Won't you tell me, please tell me, O, what is the harm,
as I lie here tonight with your child in my arms?
The lamp of freedom
by Michael R. Burch, age 16
When the lamp lies shattered,
its bowl can be remade,
but should its light be scattered,
light cannot be regained.
Hold high the lamp of freedom;
let a man be no man's slave.
Staying Free
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
Others dwell in darkness,
raging through the night,
slaves to fearsome demons,
though children of the light,
where, caught up in emotions
they fail to understand,
they flock to laud the Mocker
who kneads them in his hand.
And all the revelations
bright choirs of angels sing,
they never seem to notice
as their shackles clang and ring.
They know naught of freedom,
nor wish to—for, born slaves
into dull lives of servitude,
their chains they dearly crave.
But let them live their captive lives;
whatever they may be,
for I am bound to be a man
as long as I stay free.
What Is Love If It’s Not Forever?
by Michael R. Burch, age 17
My love, are you trying to tell me
that you no longer love me?
After all these years of sacrifice
and hope and joy and compromise,
are you saying that we are through?
You always called me a romanticist,
a fantasist, a dreamer,
while labeling yourself a realist,
a fatalist, a schemer …
but I thought that, perhaps,
a spark of romance
existed also in you.
And yet it seems that now,
incredibly, you wish to leave me,
and all that was said and done,
unselfishly, in the name of love,
must be written off as a total waste.
You often hinted at a dark side
to your inner nature,
while despairing of my “innocent,
unassuming character,”
but I had always hoped that
you would never act
in such haste.
For what is love if it’s not forever?
Can such an ethereal thing
exist beatifically for a moment
and then be gone … like spring?
Yes, what is love if it’s not forever?
Is it caresses and laughter and words sweet and clever,
intrigue and romance, sorrow and pain,
whirligig dances, sunshine and rain,
such as we had? Or is it more—
a volcanic struggle deep at heart’s core;
a wave of sweet sadness sweeping the shore
of one’s emotions; a rampaging ocean
of fantastical supposition;
a ******, gut-wrenching war
fought within oneself
—such as I often felt,
but which you admit now that you never have?
[etc., see handwritten version]
To prove you independence by leaving me
is a quaint paradox, but unresolvable.
So return to me, tell him goodbye,
and let us tend to mysteries more solvable.
For what is love if it’s not forever?
Perhaps we already know,
for we cannot live without one another:
like the sunshine and summer,
one cannot leave unless both will go.
When love is just a memory
by Michael R. Burch, age 25
When love is just a memory
of August nights’ enflaming wine;
when youth is just a dream,
a scene from some forgotten time;
when passion is a word for thought
and nights are spent with friends;
when we are old, and cannot “love,”
how will you love me then?
Are you so young and so naive
that "love" means this to you—
a fiery act, a frantic pact,
a whispered word or two?
O, darling, neither acts nor pacts
could ever bind our hearts;
only love might bond them,
but then neither would be yours.
And though we burn as one today,
what ember does not die?
Fire cleanses, but I fear
only tears can sanctify.
Yes, you may burn, and burn for me,
but can you shed a tear
to think that you and I might cool
somewhere within the coming years?
For love and hate are ill-defined,
and where they meet, we cannot tell,
but lust and love are unrelated,
however closely they may dwell.
And though I long for you tonight,
such hellish passion I prefer
to the hell of loving you
with heat untempered by the years.
Rag Doll
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed
back and forth between cruel waves
that have marred her easy beauty
and ripped away her clothes.
And her arms, once smoothly tanned,
are gashed and torn and peeling
as she dances to the waters’
rockings and reelings.
She’s a rag doll now,
a toy of the sea,
and never before
has she been so free,
or so uneasy.
She’s slammed by the hammering waves,
the flesh shorn away from her bones,
and her silent lips must long to scream,
and her corpse must long to find its home.
For she’s a rag doll now,
at the mercy of all
the sea’s relentless power,
cruelly being ravaged
with every passing hour.
Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen
shut to the pounding waves
whose waters reached out to fill her mouth
with puddles of agony.
Her limbs are limp; her skull is crushed;
her hair hangs like seaweed
in trailing tendrils draped across
a never-ending sea.
For she’s a rag doll now,
a worn-out toy
with which the waves will play
ten thousand thoughtless games
until her bed is made.
#MRBPOEMS #MRBPOETRY #MRBEARLY #MRBJUVENILIA #MRBJUV
"The Making of a Poet" is the account of how I came to be a poet, despite destroying all my poems at age 15, as recounted in my poem "Heir on Fire."
