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Juvenilia: Early Poems V 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 at dawn to wild surmise of what was waiting there. Your back was bent with untold care; there savage brands had left cruel scars as though the wounds of countless wars; your bones were broken with the force with which they'd lashed your flesh so fair. You once were loveliest of all. So many nights you held in thrall a scrawny lad who heard your call from where dawn’s milling showers fall— pale meteors through sapphire air. I learned the eagerness of youth to temper for a lover’s touch; I felt you, tremulant, reprove each time I fumbled over-much. Your merest word became my prayer. You took me gently by the hand and led my steps from child to man; now I look back, remember when you shone, and cannot understand why now, tonight, you bear their brand. *** I will take and cradle you in my arms, remindful of the gentle charms you showed me once, of yore; and I will lead you from your cell tonight back into that incandescent light which flows out of the core of a sun whose robes you wore. And I will wash your feet with tears for all those blissful years ... my love, whom I adore. I consider "Poetry" to be my Ars Poetica. I believe I wrote the first version in my late teens, probably around age 19. These Hallowed Halls by Michael R. Burch a young Romantic Poet mourns the passing of an age ... I. A final stereo fades into silence and now there is seldom a murmur to trouble the slumber of these ancient halls. I stand by a window where others have watched the passage of time alone, not untouched, and I am as they were— unsure, and the days stretch out ahead, a bewildering maze. II. Ah, faithless lover— that I had never touched your breast, nor felt the stirrings of my heart, which until that moment had peacefully slept. For now I have known the exhilaration of a heart that has leapt from the pinnacle of love, and the result of every infatuation— the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above. III. A solitary clock chimes the hour from far above the campus, but my peers, returning from their dances, heed it not. And so it is that we seldom gauge Time’s speed because He moves so unobtrusively about His task. Still, when at last we reckon His mark upon our lives, we may well be surprised at His thoroughness. IV. Ungentle maiden— when Time has etched His little lines so carelessly across your brow, perhaps I will love you less than now. And when cruel Time has stolen your youth, as He certainly shall in course, perhaps you will wish you had taken me along with my broken heart, even as He will take you with yours. V. A measureless rhythm rules the night— few have heard it, but I have shared it, and its secret is mine. To put it into words is as to extract the sweetness from honey and must be done as gently as a butterfly cleans its wings. But when it is captured, it is gone again; its usefulness is only that it lulls to sleep. VI. So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night, to the moans of the moonlit hills that groan as I do, yet somehow sleep through the nightjar’s cryptic trills. But I will not sleep this night, nor any ... how can I, when my dreams are always of your perfect face ringed in whorls of fretted lace, and a tear upon your pillowcase? VII. If I had been born when knights roamed the earth and mad kings ruled strange lands, I might have turned to the ministry, to the solitude of a monastery. But there are no monks or hermits today— theirs is a lost occupation carried on, if at all, merely for sake of tradition. For today man abhors solitude— he craves companions, song and drink, seldom seeking a quiet moment, to sit alone by himself, to think. VIII. And so I cannot shut myself off from the rest of the world, to spend my days in philosophy and my nights in tears of self-sympathy. No, I must continue as best I can, and learn to keep my thoughts away from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth, centuries past though lost but a day. IX. Yes, I must discipline myself and adjust to these lackluster days when men display no chivalry and romance is the "old-fashioned" way. X. A single stereo flares into song and the first faint light of morning has pierced the sky's black awning once again. XI. This is a sacred place, for those who leave, leave better than they came. But those who stay, while they are here, add, with their sleepless nights and tears, quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls of these hallowed halls. I wrote this poem as a college freshman, age 18, watching my peers return to their dorms from a night of partying ... hymn to Apollo by Michael R. Burch something of sunshine attracted my i as it lazed on the afternoon sky, golden, splashed on the easel of god ... what, i thought, could this elfin stuff be, to, phantomlike, flit through tall trees on fall days, such as these? and the breeze whispered a dirge to the vanishing light; enchoired with the evening, it sang; its voice enchantedly rang chanting “Night!” ... till all the bright light retired, expired. This poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern. I believe I wrote it around age 16 or 17. Each Color a Scar by Michael R. Burch What she left here, upon my cheek, is a tear. She did not speak, but her intention was clear, and I was meek, far too meek, and, I fear, too sincere. What she can never take from my heart is its ache; for now we, apart, are like leaves without weight, scattered afar by love, or by hate, each color a scar. I believe I wrote this poem around age 20-21. Keywords/Tags: juvenilia, juvenile, early poems, early poetry, early writing, write, young, youth, teen, teenage, poets, poems

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Juvenilia: Early Poems V

Juvenilia: Early Poems V 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 at dawn to wild surmise of what was waiting there. Your back was bent with untold care; there savage brands had left cruel scars as though the wounds of countless wars; your bones were broken with the force with which they'd lashed your flesh so fair. You once were loveliest of all. So many nights you held in thrall a scrawny lad who heard your call from where dawn’s milling showers fall— pale meteors through sapphire air. I learned the eagerness of youth to temper for a lover’s touch; I felt you, tremulant, reprove each time I fumbled over-much. Your merest word became my prayer. You took me gently by the hand and led my steps from child to man; now I look back, remember when you shone, and cannot understand why now, tonight, you bear their brand. *** I will take and cradle you in my arms, remindful of the gentle charms you showed me once, of yore; and I will lead you from your cell tonight back into that incandescent light which flows out of the core of a sun whose robes you wore. And I will wash your feet with tears for all those blissful years ... my love, whom I adore. I consider "Poetry" to be my Ars Poetica. I believe I wrote the first version in my late teens, probably around age 19. These Hallowed Halls by Michael R. Burch a young Romantic Poet mourns the passing of an age ... I. A final stereo fades into silence and now there is seldom a murmur to trouble the slumber of these ancient halls. I stand by a window where others have watched the passage of time alone, not untouched, and I am as they were— unsure, and the days stretch out ahead, a bewildering maze. II. Ah, faithless lover— that I had never touched your breast, nor felt the stirrings of my heart, which until that moment had peacefully slept. For now I have known the exhilaration of a heart that has leapt from the pinnacle of love, and the result of every infatuation— the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above. III. A solitary clock chimes the hour from far above the campus, but my peers, returning from their dances, heed it not. And so it is that we seldom gauge Time’s speed because He moves so unobtrusively about His task. Still, when at last we reckon His mark upon our lives, we may well be surprised at His thoroughness. IV. Ungentle maiden— when Time has etched His little lines so carelessly across your brow, perhaps I will love you less than now. And when cruel Time has stolen your youth, as He certainly shall in course, perhaps you will wish you had taken me along with my broken heart, even as He will take you with yours. V. A measureless rhythm rules the night— few have heard it, but I have shared it, and its secret is mine. To put it into words is as to extract the sweetness from honey and must be done as gently as a butterfly cleans its wings. But when it is captured, it is gone again; its usefulness is only that it lulls to sleep. VI. So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night, to the moans of the moonlit hills that groan as I do, yet somehow sleep through the nightjar’s cryptic trills. But I will not sleep this night, nor any ... how can I, when my dreams are always of your perfect face ringed in whorls of fretted lace, and a tear upon your pillowcase? VII. If I had been born when knights roamed the earth and mad kings ruled strange lands, I might have turned to the ministry, to the solitude of a monastery. But there are no monks or hermits today— theirs is a lost occupation carried on, if at all, merely for sake of tradition. For today man abhors solitude— he craves companions, song and drink, seldom seeking a quiet moment, to sit alone by himself, to think. VIII. And so I cannot shut myself off from the rest of the world, to spend my days in philosophy and my nights in tears of self-sympathy. No, I must continue as best I can, and learn to keep my thoughts away from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth, centuries past though lost but a day. IX. Yes, I must discipline myself and adjust to these lackluster days when men display no chivalry and romance is the "old-fashioned" way. X. A single stereo flares into song and the first faint light of morning has pierced the sky's black awning once again. XI. This is a sacred place, for those who leave, leave better than they came. But those who stay, while they are here, add, with their sleepless nights and tears, quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls of these hallowed halls. I wrote this poem as a college freshman, age 18, watching my peers return to their dorms from a night of partying ... hymn to Apollo by Michael R. Burch something of sunshine attracted my i as it lazed on the afternoon sky, golden, splashed on the easel of god ... what, i thought, could this elfin stuff be, to, phantomlike, flit through tall trees on fall days, such as these? and the breeze whispered a dirge to the vanishing light; enchoired with the evening, it sang; its voice enchantedly rang chanting “Night!” ... till all the bright light retired, expired. This poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern. I believe I wrote it around age 16 or 17. Each Color a Scar by Michael R. Burch What she left here, upon my cheek, is a tear. She did not speak, but her intention was clear, and I was meek, far too meek, and, I fear, too sincere. What she can never take from my heart is its ache; for now we, apart, are like leaves without weight, scattered afar by love, or by hate, each color a scar. I believe I wrote this poem around age 20-21. Keywords/Tags: juvenilia, juvenile, early poems, early poetry, early writing, write, young, youth, teen, teenage, poets, poems