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NOTE: The Natchez Trace is the Nashville bar where I met my future wife Beth. We invented a game called "twister pool" which involved billiards, drinking and a fair bit of physical contortion ... At the Natchez Trace by Michael R. Burch for Beth I. Solitude surrounds me though nearby laughter sounds; around me mingle men who think to drink their demons down, in rounds. Beside me stands a woman, a stanza in the song that plays so low and fluting and bids me sing along. Beside me stands a woman whose eyes reveal her soul, whose cheeks are soft as eiderdown, whose hips and breasts are full. Beside me stands a woman who scarcely knows my name; but I would have her know my heart if only I knew where to start. II. Not every man is as he seems; not all are prone to poems and dreams. Not every man would take the time to meter out his heart in rhyme. But I am not as other men— my heart is sentenced to this pen. III. Men speak of their "ambition" but they only know its name . . . I never say the word aloud, but I have felt the Flame. IV. Now, standing here, I do not dare to let her know that I might care; I never learned the lines to use; I never worked the wolves' bold ruse. But if she looks my way again, perhaps I will, if only then. V. How can a man have come so far in searching after every star, and yet today, though years away, look back upon the winding way, and see himself as he was then, a child of eight or nine or ten, and not know more? VI. My life is not empty; I have my desire . . . I write in a moment that few man can know, when my nerves are on fire and my heart does not tire though it pounds at my breast— wrenching blow after blow. VII. And in all I attempted, I also succeeded; few men have more talent to do what I do. But in one respect, I stand now defeated; In love I could never make magic come true. VIII. If I had been born to be handsome and charming, then love might have come to me easily as well. But if had that been, then would I have written? If not, I'd remain; damn that demon to hell! IX. Beside me stands a woman, but others look her way and in their eyes are eagerness . . . for passion and a wild caress? But who am I to say? Beside me stands a woman; she conjures up the night and wraps itself around her till others flit about her like moths drawn to firelight. X. And I, myself, am just as they, wondering when the light might fade, yet knowing should it not dim soon that I might fall and be consumed. XI. I write from despair in the silence of morning for want of a prayer and the need of the mourning. And loneliness grips my heart like a vise; my anguish is harsher and colder than ice. But poetry can bring my heart healing and deaden the pain, or lessen the feeling. And so I must write till at last sleep has called me and hope at that moment my pen has not failed me. XII. Beside me stands a woman, a mystery to me. I long to hold her in my arms; I also long to flee. Beside me stands a woman; how many has she known more handsome, charming, chic, alarming? I hope I never know. Beside me stands a woman; how many has she known who ever wrote her such a poem? I know not even one. Keywords/Tags: love, relationship, relationships, rhyme, hope, pain, painful, solitude, drink, drinking, enigma, angel, stranger, ambiguity, woman

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At the Natchez Trace

NOTE: The Natchez Trace is the Nashville bar where I met my future wife Beth. We invented a game called "twister pool" which involved billiards, drinking and a fair bit of physical contortion ... At the Natchez Trace by Michael R. Burch for Beth I. Solitude surrounds me though nearby laughter sounds; around me mingle men who think to drink their demons down, in rounds. Beside me stands a woman, a stanza in the song that plays so low and fluting and bids me sing along. Beside me stands a woman whose eyes reveal her soul, whose cheeks are soft as eiderdown, whose hips and breasts are full. Beside me stands a woman who scarcely knows my name; but I would have her know my heart if only I knew where to start. II. Not every man is as he seems; not all are prone to poems and dreams. Not every man would take the time to meter out his heart in rhyme. But I am not as other men— my heart is sentenced to this pen. III. Men speak of their "ambition" but they only know its name . . . I never say the word aloud, but I have felt the Flame. IV. Now, standing here, I do not dare to let her know that I might care; I never learned the lines to use; I never worked the wolves' bold ruse. But if she looks my way again, perhaps I will, if only then. V. How can a man have come so far in searching after every star, and yet today, though years away, look back upon the winding way, and see himself as he was then, a child of eight or nine or ten, and not know more? VI. My life is not empty; I have my desire . . . I write in a moment that few man can know, when my nerves are on fire and my heart does not tire though it pounds at my breast— wrenching blow after blow. VII. And in all I attempted, I also succeeded; few men have more talent to do what I do. But in one respect, I stand now defeated; In love I could never make magic come true. VIII. If I had been born to be handsome and charming, then love might have come to me easily as well. But if had that been, then would I have written? If not, I'd remain; damn that demon to hell! IX. Beside me stands a woman, but others look her way and in their eyes are eagerness . . . for passion and a wild caress? But who am I to say? Beside me stands a woman; she conjures up the night and wraps itself around her till others flit about her like moths drawn to firelight. X. And I, myself, am just as they, wondering when the light might fade, yet knowing should it not dim soon that I might fall and be consumed. XI. I write from despair in the silence of morning for want of a prayer and the need of the mourning. And loneliness grips my heart like a vise; my anguish is harsher and colder than ice. But poetry can bring my heart healing and deaden the pain, or lessen the feeling. And so I must write till at last sleep has called me and hope at that moment my pen has not failed me. XII. Beside me stands a woman, a mystery to me. I long to hold her in my arms; I also long to flee. Beside me stands a woman; how many has she known more handsome, charming, chic, alarming? I hope I never know. Beside me stands a woman; how many has she known who ever wrote her such a poem? I know not even one. Keywords/Tags: love, relationship, relationships, rhyme, hope, pain, painful, solitude, drink, drinking, enigma, angel, stranger, ambiguity, woman