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Juvenilia: Early Poems by Michael R. Burch Smoke by Michael R. Burch The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well; farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today. The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today; she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ... This early poem was written around age 14; it appeared in my high school journal. Styx by Michael R. Burch Black waters, deep and dark and still ... all men have passed this way, or will. I believe wrote "Styx" around age 18. The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch I have not come for the harvest of roses— the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme ... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer— images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Something by Michael R. Burch Something inescapable is lost— lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone— gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past— blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, which finality has swept into a corner, where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. This was the first poem that I wrote that didn't rhyme, around age 18-19. 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 heart sought its shell like a crab on a beach, then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach? Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage? Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too, have dreamed of infinity ... windswept and blue. This is one of the first poems that made me feel like a "real" poet, around age 17-18. Observance by Michael R. Burch Here the hills are old and rolling carefully in their old age; on the horizon youthful mountains bathe themselves in windblown fountains ... By dying leaves and falling raindrops, I have traced time's starts and stops, and I have known the years to pass almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops ... For here the valleys fill with sunlight to the brim, then empty again, and it seems that only I notice how the years flood out, and in ... This is the other early poem that made me feel like a real poet. I remember writing it in the break room of the McDonald's where I worked as a high school student, at age 17. Will There Be Starlight by Michael R. Burch Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers damask and lilac and sweet-scented heathers? And will she find flowers, or will she find thorns guarding the petals of roses unborn? Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers seashells and mussels and albatross feathers? And will she find treasure or will she find pain at the end of this rainbow of moonlight on rain? I wrote this poem around age 18. The Leveler by Michael R. Burch The nature of Nature is bitter survival from Winter’s bleak fury till Spring’s brief revival. The weak implore Fate; bold men ravish, dishevel her ... till both are cut down by mere ticks of the Leveler. I wrote this poem around age 20, or thereabouts. Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch ... qui laetificat juventutem meam ... She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone ... . requiescat in pace ... May she rest in peace ... . amen ... Amen. Written around age 17. Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch If God is good half the Bible is libel. I read the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, ten chapters per day, at the suggestion of my parents. The so-called "word of God" left me aghast. How could anyone possibly claim the biblical god Yahweh/Jehovah was good, wise, loving, just, etc.? I came up with this epigram to express my conclusions. hey pete by Michael R. Burch 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." Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch Have I been too long at the fair? The summer has faded, the leaves have turned brown; the Ferris wheel teeters ... not up, yet not down. Have I been too long at the fair? This is one of my 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. The Toast by Michael R. Burch For longings warmed by tepid suns (brief lusts that animated clay), for passions wilted at the bud and skies grown desolate and gray, for stars that fell from tinseled heights and mountains bleak and scarred and lone, for seas reflecting distant suns and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown, for waltzes ending in a hush, for rhymes that fade as pages close, for flames' exhausted, drifting ash, and petals falling from the rose, ... I raise my cup before I drink, saluting ghosts of loves long dead, and silently propose a toast— to joys set free, and those I fled. I wrote this poem around age 19 or earlier. Keywords/Tags: Early, Juvenilia, Young, Youth, Teen, Kid, Write, Writing, Poetry, Poets, Poems, Child, Childhood

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Early Poems I

Juvenilia: Early Poems by Michael R. Burch Smoke by Michael R. Burch The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well; farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today. The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today; she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ... This early poem was written around age 14; it appeared in my high school journal. Styx by Michael R. Burch Black waters, deep and dark and still ... all men have passed this way, or will. I believe wrote "Styx" around age 18. The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch I have not come for the harvest of roses— the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme ... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer— images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Something by Michael R. Burch Something inescapable is lost— lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone— gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past— blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, which finality has swept into a corner, where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. This was the first poem that I wrote that didn't rhyme, around age 18-19. 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 heart sought its shell like a crab on a beach, then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach? Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage? Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too, have dreamed of infinity ... windswept and blue. This is one of the first poems that made me feel like a "real" poet, around age 17-18. Observance by Michael R. Burch Here the hills are old and rolling carefully in their old age; on the horizon youthful mountains bathe themselves in windblown fountains ... By dying leaves and falling raindrops, I have traced time's starts and stops, and I have known the years to pass almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops ... For here the valleys fill with sunlight to the brim, then empty again, and it seems that only I notice how the years flood out, and in ... This is the other early poem that made me feel like a real poet. I remember writing it in the break room of the McDonald's where I worked as a high school student, at age 17. Will There Be Starlight by Michael R. Burch Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers damask and lilac and sweet-scented heathers? And will she find flowers, or will she find thorns guarding the petals of roses unborn? Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers seashells and mussels and albatross feathers? And will she find treasure or will she find pain at the end of this rainbow of moonlight on rain? I wrote this poem around age 18. The Leveler by Michael R. Burch The nature of Nature is bitter survival from Winter’s bleak fury till Spring’s brief revival. The weak implore Fate; bold men ravish, dishevel her ... till both are cut down by mere ticks of the Leveler. I wrote this poem around age 20, or thereabouts. Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch ... qui laetificat juventutem meam ... She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone ... . requiescat in pace ... May she rest in peace ... . amen ... Amen. Written around age 17. Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch If God is good half the Bible is libel. I read the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, ten chapters per day, at the suggestion of my parents. The so-called "word of God" left me aghast. How could anyone possibly claim the biblical god Yahweh/Jehovah was good, wise, loving, just, etc.? I came up with this epigram to express my conclusions. hey pete by Michael R. Burch 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." Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch Have I been too long at the fair? The summer has faded, the leaves have turned brown; the Ferris wheel teeters ... not up, yet not down. Have I been too long at the fair? This is one of my 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. The Toast by Michael R. Burch For longings warmed by tepid suns (brief lusts that animated clay), for passions wilted at the bud and skies grown desolate and gray, for stars that fell from tinseled heights and mountains bleak and scarred and lone, for seas reflecting distant suns and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown, for waltzes ending in a hush, for rhymes that fade as pages close, for flames' exhausted, drifting ash, and petals falling from the rose, ... I raise my cup before I drink, saluting ghosts of loves long dead, and silently propose a toast— to joys set free, and those I fled. I wrote this poem around age 19 or earlier. Keywords/Tags: Early, Juvenilia, Young, Youth, Teen, Kid, Write, Writing, Poetry, Poets, Poems, Child, Childhood