Juvenilia: Early Poems Xi

Juvenilia: Early Poems XI Myth by Michael R. Burch after the sprung rhythm of Dylan Thomas Here the recalcitrant wind sighs with grievance and remorse over fields of wayward gorse and thistle-throttled lanes. And she is the myth of the scythed wheat hewn and sighing, complete, waiting, lain in a low sheaf— full of faith, full of grief. Here the immaculate dawn requires belief of the leafed earth and she is the myth of the mown grain— golden and humble in all its weary worth. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18. To my recollection this is my only poem influenced by the “sprung rhythm” of Dylan Thomas (moreso than that of Gerard Manley Hopkins). But I was not happy with the fourth line and put the poem aside for more than 20 years, until 1998, when I revised it. But I was still not happy with the fourth line, so I put it aside and revised it again in 2020, nearly half a century after originally writing the poem! Earthbound by Michael R. Burch 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 spirit horse, flying 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 these 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. I wrote "Earthbound" around age 20; it has been published by Boston Poetry Magazine and Native American Indian Pride. Mare Clausum by Michael R. Burch These are the narrows of my soul— dark waters pierced by eerie, haunting screams. And these uncharted islands bleakly home wild nightmares and deep, strange, forbidding dreams. Please don’t think to find pearls’ pale, unearthly glow within its shoals, nor corals in its reefs. For, though you seek to salvage Love, I know that vessel lists, and night brings no relief. Pause here, and look, and know that all is lost; then turn, and go; let salt consume, and rust. This sea is not for sailors, but the damned who lingered long past morning, till they learned why it is named: Mare Clausum. I wrote "Mare Clausum" around age 19; it was originally published by Penny Dreadful. R.I.P. by Michael R. Burch When I am lain to rest and my soul is no longer intact, but dissolving, like a sunset diminishing to the west, ... and when at last before His throne my past is put to test and the demons and the Beast await to feast on any morsel downward cast, while the vapors of impermanence cling, smelling of damask ... then let me go, and do not weep if I am left to sleep, to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps, only a little longer and more deep. I wrote this poem around age 18 or 19. Laughter from Another Room by Michael R. Burch 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 longs to spare his foe. The warrior longs to spare 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. I believe I wrote this poem around age 18-19. Lay Down Your Arms by Michael R. Burch Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand. The battle is over and night is at hand. Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go ... the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow. Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more. Instead, let us rest here on this ravaged shore. The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin ... So lay down your pamphlets; now no one will “win.” Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song. If God was to save us, He waited too long. A new world emerges, but this world is through . . . so lay down your hymnals, or write something new. I wrote “Lay Down Your Arms” around age 21. Ode to the Sun by Michael R. Burch 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. I seem to remember writing this poem around age 18. It was originally published by Tucumcari Literary Review. Keywords/Tags: early, early poems, poetry, juvenalia, boy, teen, teenage, teenager, student, college