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Juvenilia: Early Poems X These are early poems written in my teens and twenties. Regret by Michael R. Burch Regret, a bitter ache to bear... once starlight languished in your hair... a shining there as brief as rare. Regret, a pain I chose to bear... unleash the torrent of your hair... and show me once again— how rare. I wrote "Regret" around age 19 or 20; it has been published by The HyperTexts and The Chained Muse. 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 grey, 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 "The Toast" around age 19. Listen by Michael R. Burch Listen to me now and heed my voice; I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness, but listen now. Listen to me now, and if I say that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray, I have no choice. Does a madman choose his words? They come to him, the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind, and he must speak. But listen to me now, and if you hear the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear, then do not tarry, but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary. I wrote this poem around age 17. Unfoldings by Michael R. Burch Time unfolds... Your lips were roses. ...petals open, shyly clustering... I had dreams of other seasons. ...ten thousand colors quiver, blossoming. Night and day... Dreams burned within me. ...flowers part themselves, and then they close... You were lovely; I was lonely. ...a virgin yields herself, but no one knows. Now time goes on... I have not seen you. ...within ringed whorls, secrets are exchanged... A fire rages; no one sees it. ...a blossom spreads its flutes to catch the rain. Seasons flow ... A dream is dying. ...within parched clusters, life is taking form... You were honest; I was angry. ...petals fling themselves before the storm. Time is slowing... I am older. ...blossoms wither, closing one last time... I'd love to see you and to touch you. ...a flower crumbles, crinkling, worn and dry. Time contracts... I cannot touch you. ...a solitary flower cries for warmth... Life goes on as dreams lose meaning. ...the seeds are scattered, lost within a storm. I wrote this poem circa age 18-19. 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 wrote "Each Color a Scar" around age 21. The Tender Weight of Her Sighs by Michael R. Burch The tender weight of her sighs lies heavily upon my heart; apart from her, full of doubt, without her presence to revolve around, found wanting direction or course, cursed with the thought of her grief, believing true love is a myth, with hope as elusive as tears, hers and mine, unable to lie, I sigh ... I believe “The Tender Weight of Her Sighs” and “Each Color a Scar” are companion poems, probably written around the same time at age 21. This poem has an unusual rhyme scheme, with the last word of each line rhyming with the first word of the next line. The final line is a “closing couplet” in which both words rhyme with the last word of the preceding line. I believe I invented the nonce form, which I will dub the “End-First Curtal Sonnet.” War by Michael R. Burch lysander lies in lauded greece and sleeps and dreams, a stone for a pillow, unseeing as sunset devours limp willows, but War glares on. and joab's sightless gaze is turned beyond the jordan's ravaged shore; his war-ax lies to be taxed no more, but War hacks on. and roland sleeps in poppied fields with flowers flowing at his feet; their fragrance lulls his soul to sleep, but War raves on. and patton sighs an unheard sigh for sorties past and those to come; he does not heed the battle drum, but War rolls on. for now new heroes grab up guns and rush to fight their fathers' wars, as warriors' children must, of course, while War laughs on. I wrote this poem around age 17. All My Children by Michael R. Burch It is May now, gentle May, and the sun shines pleasantly upon the blousy flowers of this backyard cemet'ry, upon my children as they sleep. Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now, with a mound of earth for a pillow; his face as 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 the green gardens, on the graves of all my children ... But they never did depart; They still live within my heart. God, keep them safe until I join them, as I will. God, guard their tender dust until I meet them, as I must. This is one of my earliest poems, written circa age 15.

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Juvenilia: Early Poems X

Juvenilia: Early Poems X These are early poems written in my teens and twenties. Regret by Michael R. Burch Regret, a bitter ache to bear... once starlight languished in your hair... a shining there as brief as rare. Regret, a pain I chose to bear... unleash the torrent of your hair... and show me once again— how rare. I wrote "Regret" around age 19 or 20; it has been published by The HyperTexts and The Chained Muse. 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 grey, 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 "The Toast" around age 19. Listen by Michael R. Burch Listen to me now and heed my voice; I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness, but listen now. Listen to me now, and if I say that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray, I have no choice. Does a madman choose his words? They come to him, the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind, and he must speak. But listen to me now, and if you hear the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear, then do not tarry, but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary. I wrote this poem around age 17. Unfoldings by Michael R. Burch Time unfolds... Your lips were roses. ...petals open, shyly clustering... I had dreams of other seasons. ...ten thousand colors quiver, blossoming. Night and day... Dreams burned within me. ...flowers part themselves, and then they close... You were lovely; I was lonely. ...a virgin yields herself, but no one knows. Now time goes on... I have not seen you. ...within ringed whorls, secrets are exchanged... A fire rages; no one sees it. ...a blossom spreads its flutes to catch the rain. Seasons flow ... A dream is dying. ...within parched clusters, life is taking form... You were honest; I was angry. ...petals fling themselves before the storm. Time is slowing... I am older. ...blossoms wither, closing one last time... I'd love to see you and to touch you. ...a flower crumbles, crinkling, worn and dry. Time contracts... I cannot touch you. ...a solitary flower cries for warmth... Life goes on as dreams lose meaning. ...the seeds are scattered, lost within a storm. I wrote this poem circa age 18-19. 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 wrote "Each Color a Scar" around age 21. The Tender Weight of Her Sighs by Michael R. Burch The tender weight of her sighs lies heavily upon my heart; apart from her, full of doubt, without her presence to revolve around, found wanting direction or course, cursed with the thought of her grief, believing true love is a myth, with hope as elusive as tears, hers and mine, unable to lie, I sigh ... I believe “The Tender Weight of Her Sighs” and “Each Color a Scar” are companion poems, probably written around the same time at age 21. This poem has an unusual rhyme scheme, with the last word of each line rhyming with the first word of the next line. The final line is a “closing couplet” in which both words rhyme with the last word of the preceding line. I believe I invented the nonce form, which I will dub the “End-First Curtal Sonnet.” War by Michael R. Burch lysander lies in lauded greece and sleeps and dreams, a stone for a pillow, unseeing as sunset devours limp willows, but War glares on. and joab's sightless gaze is turned beyond the jordan's ravaged shore; his war-ax lies to be taxed no more, but War hacks on. and roland sleeps in poppied fields with flowers flowing at his feet; their fragrance lulls his soul to sleep, but War raves on. and patton sighs an unheard sigh for sorties past and those to come; he does not heed the battle drum, but War rolls on. for now new heroes grab up guns and rush to fight their fathers' wars, as warriors' children must, of course, while War laughs on. I wrote this poem around age 17. All My Children by Michael R. Burch It is May now, gentle May, and the sun shines pleasantly upon the blousy flowers of this backyard cemet'ry, upon my children as they sleep. Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now, with a mound of earth for a pillow; his face as 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 the green gardens, on the graves of all my children ... But they never did depart; They still live within my heart. God, keep them safe until I join them, as I will. God, guard their tender dust until I meet them, as I must. This is one of my earliest poems, written circa age 15.