Poems I destroyed in a fit of Pique

Around age 15, frustrated that I wasn't rivaling Keats and Shelley with my teenage poems, I destroyed everything that I had written, then had to go about recreating the poems as best I could.

I became a serious poet around age 14, but by age 15 it had become apparent to me that I was not a serious challenger to Keats, Shelley, et al, and that weighed heavily on my then-slender shoulders. In a fit of pique, I destroyed everything that I had written, to that point in time. Fortunately, I have a good memory for my early poems and can still recite most of them from memory. But a few escaped my recollection and re-collection, and are thus either partially or entirely gone. These are the ones I was able to recreate, by hook or by poetic crook, with a few misfires…

Happiness, circa age 13, was successfully created, but is, alas, not good enough to publish here. My excuse is that it was my first longish poem and I was a babe learning to crawl before I walked!

The Seven Stairs, circa age 15, is gone forever. All I remember is the title and that it was inspired by one of my favorite rock songs, "Stairway to Heaven." I believe I wrote "The Seven Stairs” shortly before my rash act of destruction and hadn’t had time to commit it to memory.

Gone, circa age 14
by Michael R. Burch

Tonight, it is dark
and the stars do not shine.

A man who is gone
was a good friend of mine.

We were friends.

And the sky was the strangest shade of orange on gold
when I awoke to find him gone ...

"Gone" is mostly gone, destroyed in a moment of frustration along with other poems I have not been able to completely recreate from memory. "Gone" is the poem that haunts me the most. I have resurrected a few lines, but the rest appear to be gone forever.

Sharon, circa age 15-17
by Michael R. Burch

apologies to Byron

Black-haired beauty, like the night,
stay with me till morning's light.
In shadows, Sharon, become love
until the sun shines, high above.

Red, red lips reveal white stone:
whet my own, my passions hone.
My all in all I give to you,
in our tongues’ exchange of dew.

Now all I ever ask of you
is: do with me what now you do.
In shadows, Sharon, shed your gown;
let all night’s walls come tumbling down.

“Flamingo-minted, pink, pink cheeks,
dark hair streaked with a lisp of dawnlight;
I have seen your shadow creep
through eerie webs spun out of twilight...
And I have longed to kiss your lips,
as sweet as the honeysuckle blooms;
and I have longed to hold your body,
more curvaceous than the moon...”

Now I will love you long, Sharon,
as long as longing may be.

“Sharon” is a poem that I partially resurrected, by “hook and poetic crook.” The last two stanzas are all I can remember of another “Sharon” poem that I destroyed in a fit of frustration about my writing, around age 15. The first part of this poem was written later, around age 17.

All My Children, circa age 14
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 harsh 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 beaus kind, dark and tall
for dreams dreamed not at all.

It is May now, gentle May
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon this backyard garden,
on the graves of all my children ...

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 a poem I had forgotten for nearly 50 years until another poet, Robert Lavett Smith, mentioned the poem "We Are Seven" by William Wordsworth. As I read Wordsworth's poem about a little girl who refused to admit that some of her siblings were missing, I remembered a poem I had written about a mother who clung just as tenaciously to the memory of her children. The line "It is May now, merry May" popped into my head and helped me locate the poem in my archives. I believe I wrote this poem around the same time as "Jessamyn's Song," which would place it around 1972-1973 at age 14-15, or thereabouts. I can tell it's one of my early poems because I was still allowing myself archaisms like "cemet'ry" which I would have avoided in my late teens. "All My Children" is admittedly a sentimental poem, but then we human beings are sentimental creatures. I believe the poem was influenced by Little Women, the first book that made me cry.


Autumn Lament, circa age 14
by Michael R. Burch

Alas, the earth is green no more;
her colors fade and die,
and all her trampled marigolds
lament the graying sky.

And now the summer sheds her coat
of buttercups, and so is bared
to winter’s palest furies
who laugh aloud and do not care
as they await their hour.

Where are the showers of April?
Where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?

Where are the lovely maidens
who browned ’neath the flaming sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?

"Autumn Lament” is a poem I had to recreate and I seem to remember having to improvise here and there with the longer version, which appears later on this page.

Smoke, circa age 14-15
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 ...

"Smoke" was originally a longer poem, but I was able to recreate the first six lines with perfect fidelity. I recovered two more lines from my memory, but decided the first six lines were better and left the poem at that. “Smoke” was published in my high school literary journal, the Lantern, and in my college journal, Homespun, in the eight-line version.

Have I been too long at the fair?, circa age 14-15
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 another poem I had no trouble remembering and it remains as I originally wrote it. “Have I been too long at the fair?” was published in my high school literary journal, the Lantern.

Bound, circa age 14-15
by Michael R. Burch

Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.

Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.

This poem appeared in my high school journal. It was originally titled "Why Did I Go?" I have made slight changes since, but the poem is essentially the same as the one I wrote in my early teens.

Playmates, circa age 13-14
by Michael R. Burch

WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended ... far, far away ...
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.

Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.

Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden cookies were our only lusts!

Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate.

Hell, we seldom thought about the next day,
when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last.

Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die ...
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.

"Playmates" was originally published by The Lyric.

I had worked on “Playmates” more than most of my early poems, so it wasn’t too hard to recreate from memory. This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher, Anne Meyers, called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley!

An Illusion, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee
and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold
when I awoke.

She came to me with the sound of falling leaves
and the scent of new-mown grass;
I held out my arms to her and she passed

into oblivion ...

This little dream-poem appeared in my high school journal, so I was no older than 18 when I wrote it, probably younger. I will guess around age 15-16. This feels like one of my early Romantic effusions. I’m not sure if I had to recreate this one.

Am I, circa age 14-15
by Michael R. Burch

Am I inconsequential;
do I matter not at all?
Am I just a snowflake,
to sparkle, then to fall?

Am I only chaff?
Of what use am I?
Am I just a flame,
to flicker, then to die?

Am I inadvertent?
For what reason am I here?
Am I just a ripple
in a pool that once was clear?

Am I insignificant?
Will time pass me by?
Am I just a flower,
to live one day, then die?

Am I unimportant?
Do I matter either way?
Or am I just an echo—
soon to fade away?

I believe I had to recreate this poem and its companion poem “Time.” The title is a reversal of the biblical "I Am."

Time, circa age 14-15
by Michael R. Burch

Time,
where have you gone?
What turned out so short,
had seemed like so long.

Time,
where have you flown?
What seemed like mere days
were years come and gone.

Time,
see what you've done:
for now I am old,
when once I was young.

Time,
do you even know why
your days, minutes, seconds
preternaturally fly?

This is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates," so I was probably around 14 or 15 when I wrote it. This seems like a pretty well-crafted poem for a teenage poet just getting started. My English teacher, Anne Meyers, wrote "I like this one" beside "Time" in my notebook.

Tell me what i am, circa age 14-16
by Michael R. Burch

Tell me what i am,
for i have often wondered why i live.
Do u know?
Please, tell me so ...
drive away this darkness from within.

For my heart is black with sin
and i have often wondered why i am;
and my thoughts are lacking light,
though i have often sought what was right.

Now it is night;
please drive away this darkness from without,
for i doubt that i will see
the coming of the day
without ur help.

This heartfelt little poem appeared in my high school journal. I believe I wrote it around age 14 to 16 during the period I wrote related "I am/am I" poems such as "I Am Lonely," "Am I," "Time" and "Why Did I Go?" It was published in the Lantern.

When last my love left me, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

The sun was a smoldering ember
when last my love left me;
the sunset cast curious shadows
over green arcs of the sea;
she spoke sad words, departing,
and teardrops drenched the trees.

I believe this is a poem that I had to recreate, then went on to revise around age 16. This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, during my freshman year.

Canticle: an Aubade, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

Misty morning sunlight hails the dawning of new day;
dreams drift into drowsiness before they fade away.
Dew drops on the green grass speak of splendor in the sun;
the silence lauds a songstress and the skillful song she's sung.
Among the weeping willows the mist clings to the leaves;
and, laughing in the early light among the lemon trees,

there goes a brace of bees.

Dancing in the depthless blue like small, bright bits of steel,
the butterflies flock to the west and wander through dawn's fields.
Above the thoughtless traffic of the world, intent on play,
a flock of mallard geese in v's dash onward as they race.
And dozing in the daylight lies a newborn collie pup,
drinking in bright sunlight through small eyes still tightly shut.
And high above the meadows, blazing through the warming air,
a shaft of brilliant sunshine has started something there . . .

it looks like summer.

I distinctly remember writing this poem in Ms. Davenport’s class at Maplewood High School. I believe that was in 1974 at age 15-16, but I could be off by a year. I’m not sure it I had to recreate it. This is another early poem that makes me think I had a good natural ear for meter. It’s not a great poem, but the music is pretty good for a beginner.

Flying, circa age 15-17
by Michael R. Burch

i shall rise
and try the bloody wings of thought
ten thousand times
before i fly ...

and then i'll sleep
and waste ten thousand nights
before i dream;
but when at last ...

i soar the distant heights of undreamt skies
where never hawks nor eagles dared to go,
as i laugh among the meteors flashing by
somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ...

if i'm not told
i’m just a man,
then i shall know
just what I am.

This is one of my early "I Am" poems, written originally around age 15. I’m not sure if I had to recreate it, but I think so. According to my notes, I may have revised the poem later, in 1978, but if so the changes were minor because the poem remains very close to the original.

Burn, Ovid, circa age 15-24
by Michael R. Burch

“Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke

Sunday School,
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imagining watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit sex was the day’s “hot” topic
(how breathlessly I imagined hers)
as she taught us the perils of lust
fraught with inhibition.

I found her unaccountably beautiful,
rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue:
adultery, fornication, masturbation, sodomy.
Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush
of her unrouged cheeks,
by her pale lips
accented only by a slight quiver,
a trepidation.

What did those lustrous folds foretell
of our uncommon desire?
Why did she cross and uncross her legs
lovely and long in their taupe sheaths?
Why did her breasts rise pointedly,
as if indicating a direction?

“Come unto me,
(unto me),”
together, we sang,

cheek to breast,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,

my hands
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:

all night long,
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.

I may have only remembered parts of this poem. The current version seems quite different from the original. “Burn, Ovid” is set at Faith Christian Academy in Goldsboro, NC, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes. Another poem, "Sex 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year. These poems have been more heavily edited than most of the poems in this collection.

Sex 101, circa age 15-24
by Michael R. Burch

That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...

Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...

Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...

The most unlikely coupling—

Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...

Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...

And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...

that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.

This companion poem to "Burn, Ovid" is also set at Faith Christian Academy, in 1972-1973. My notes about “Burn, Ovid” apply here.

Morning, circa age 14-17
by Michael R. Burch

It was morning
and the bright dew drenched the grasses
like tears the trembling lashes of my lover;
another day had come.

And everywhere the flowers
were turning to the sun,
just as the night before
I had turned to the one
for whom my heart yearned.

I believe I wrote this poem around age 14, then according to my notes revised it around age 17. In any case, it was published in my high school literary journal.

A pledge for ignorance, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

In these troubled times,
when truth and conjecture
are no longer distinguished
by the common man,
who accepts all things
as part of some ultimate plan,
believing, perhaps rightly so,
that any gods existing now
shall soon be overthrown,
I have closed my eyes and seen
the dissolution of my beliefs.

Once I thought myself secure
belonging to a race of logic and science,
infallible, perhaps capable
of conquering the universe . . .
but as I have seen the plight
of my people growing worse and worse,
today I attempt not to think at all,
nor do I scale the heights that I once did;
having experienced one harrowing fall,
I will not risk another
even to save a brother.

For thought is like the flight of birds
that rise to heights unknown to men,
till, grazing the orbits of fiery stars,
they fall to earth, their feathers singed.
So I will not venture those starry paths
by moons unseen and planets ringed,
but I will live my life below,
secure in blissful ignorance,
never approaching thought's orbs aglow . . .
and though I may be wrong in this,
what I have not seen, I have not missed.

In this poem, I unleashed my inner 15-year-old cynic and I don't think it can be taken seriously. This poem was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, in the 1977-1978 issue. It was the first poem in that issue. It has not been published or submitted since. 

Around age 15, I read a large number of western novels, especially those of Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour. I also became interested in songwriting and wrote several cowboy-themed songs. But I never learned to read or write music, so the lyrics remained poems. I believe all or most of my cowboy poems were destroyed, but having been written as songs, they were easy to recover. I continued to work on them later in high school, and have even done some touch-ups in my sixties!

Desperado, age 15
by Michael R. Burch

Have you ridden the fences
   of plains never-ending
as the wind sighed for lovers
   long past, or long gone?
Have you dreamt of a night
   with a pale moon ascending,
as Death stole a kiss
   from your lips before dawn?

If love is the gold that you seek,
   are you fleeing
for fear that its luster
   may blind you again?
Oh, desperate lover, I loved you
   not knowing
you would flee from my arms
   through this cold, driving rain

to wander alone where the stars do not shine,
having stolen the brightness from love — yours and mine.

This poem was inspired by the Eagles song “Desperado” and was written as a song in 1973 when I was 15 years old and in my songwriting phase. The Eagles song came out in April 1973 and I remember writing my song soon thereafter. My "Desperado" is close to a sonnet in form, but that was not intentional on my part.

Blue Cowboy, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

He slumps against the pommel,
a lonely, heartsick boy—
his horse his sole companion,
his gun his only toy
—and bitterly regretting
he ever came so far,
forsaking all home's comforts
to sleep beneath the stars,
he sighs.

He thinks about the lover
who awaits his kiss no more
till a tear anoints his lashes,
lit by uncaring stars.
He reaches to his aching breast,
withdraws a golden lock,
and kisses it in silence
as empty as his thoughts
while the wind sighs.

Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
between the earth and distant stars.
Do not fall; the scorpions
would leap to feast upon your heart.

Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand
for a drop of water warm and brown.
Dream of streams like silver seams
even as you gulp it down.

Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs
to hide the weakness in your soul.
Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
and wish that you were going home
as the stars sigh.

I wrote this poem during my songwriting phase, sometime between 1973 and 1976, but probably closer to 1973 at age 15. Unpublished.

Cowpoke, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

Sleep, old man...
your day has long since passed.
The endless plains,
cool midnight rains
and changeless ragged cows
alone remain
of what once was.

You cannot know
just how the Change
will rape the windswept plains
that you so loved...
and so sleep now,
O yes, sleep now...
before you see just how
the Change will come.

Sleep, old man...
your dreams are not our dreams.
The Rio Grande,
stark silver sands
and every obscure brand
of steed and cow
are sure to pass away
as you do now.

I believe this poem was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day. Unpublished.

Roll On, Red River, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

Roll on, Red River,
a cowboy has died.
Roll on; we lay him
down here at your side.
Carry him off
to the wild, raging sea...
Roll on, Red River,
and set his soul free.

Roll on, Red River,
roll on to the sea,
and sing him to sleep
as you roll up his dreams.
Sing him to sleep
with some old, lonesome song...
Now roll on, Red River,
and roll him along.

Roll on, Red River
and say a kind word
for an old surly cowhand
who died poor and hurt:
poor as a pauper
and hurt by his friends...
Roll on, Red River,
roll on to the end.

Roll on, Red River,
a cowboy has died.
Nobody loved him
and nobody cried.
A cowboy's not much,
but at least he's a man...
So roll on, Red River,
roll on and be damned.

I believe I wrote the original version of this poem around the time I wrote “Blue Cowboy” and “Cowpoke.” I had been reading Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour around this time, and I religiously watched the Kung Fu western TV series from 1972 to 1975. Unpublished.

Belfast’s Streets, circa age 14-20
by Michael R. Burch

Belfast’s streets are strangely silent,
deserted for a while,
and only shadows wander
her alleys, slick and vile
with children’s darkening blood.

Her sidewalks sigh and her cobblestones
clack in misery
beneath my booted feet,
longing to be free
from their legacy of blood,
and yet there’s no relief,
for it seems that there’s no God.

Her sirens scream and her PAs plead
and her shops and churches sob,
but the city throbs
—her heart the mobs
that are also her disease—
and still there’s no relief,
for it seems there is no God.

I listen to a radio
and men who seem to feel
that only “right” is real.

“We can’t give in
to men like them,
for we have an ideal
and God is on our side!”
one angrily replies,
but the sidewalks seem to chide,
clicking like snapped teeth.
And if God is on our side,
then where is God’s relief?
And if there is a God,
then why is there no love
and why is there no peace?

“Sweet innocence! this land was wild
and better wild again
than torn apart beneath the feet
of ‘educated’ men!”
The other screams in rage and hate,
and a war’s begun that will not end
till the show goes off at ten.

Now a little girl is singing,
walking t’ward me ’cross the street,
her voice so high and sweet
it hangs upon the air,
and her eyes are Irish eyes,
and her hair is Irish hair,
all red and wild and fair,
and she wears a Catholic cross,
but she doesn’t really care.

She’s singing to a puppy
and hugging him between
the verses of her hymn.

Now here’s a little love
and here’s a little peace,
and maybe here’s our Maker,
present though unseen,
on Belfast’s dreary streets.

This is one of my earliest poems, as indicated by the occasional use of archaisms. I believe I wrote "Belfast's Streets" under the influence of the song “Molly Malone” and news reports about religious strife in Belfast. I think the first version was written around age 14 in 1972, then the poem was updated and filed in 1978, around age 19-20.

I Am Lonely, circa age 15-16
by Michael R. Burch

God, I am lonely;
I am weak and sore afraid.
Now, just who am I to turn to
when my heart is torn in two?

God, I am lonely
and I cannot find a mate.
Now, just who am I to turn to
when the best friend that I’ve made

remains myself?

I seem to remember having to recreate this poem, so it may have been written around age 14 to 15. This is another of my "I am/am I" poems. It was published in the Lantern.

Autumn Lament, circa age 14
by Michael R. Burch

Alas, the earth is green no more;
her colors fade and die,
and all her trampled marigolds
lament the graying sky.

And now the summer sheds her coat
of buttercups, and so is bared
to winter’s palest furies
who laugh aloud and do not care
as they await their hour.

Where are the showers of April?
Where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?

Where are the lovely maidens
who browned ’neath the flaming sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?

Alas, the moss grows brown and stiff
and tumbles from the trees
that shiver in an icy mist,
limbs shivering in the breeze.

And now the frost has come and cast
itself upon the grass
as the surly snow grows bold
as it prepares at last
to pounce upon the land.

Where are the sheep and the cattle
that grazed beneath tall, stately trees?
And where are the fragile butterflies
that frolicked on the breeze?
And where are the rollicking robins
who once soared, so wild and free?
Oh, where can they all be?

Alas, the land has lost its warmth;
its rocky teeth chatter
and a thousand dying butterflies
soon’ll dodge the snowflakes as they splatter
flush against the flowers.

Where are those warm, happy hours?
Where are the snappy jays?
And where are the brilliant blossoms
that once set the meadows ablaze?

Where are the fruitful orchards?
Where, now, the squirrels and the hares?
How has our summer wonderland
become so completely bare
in such a short time?

Alas, the earth is green no more;
the sun no longer shines;
and all the grapes ungathered
hang rotting on their vines.

And now the winter wind grows cold
and comes out of the North
to freeze the flowers as they stand
and bend toward the South.

And now the autumn becomes bald,
is shorn of all its life,
as the stiletto wind hones in
to slice the skin like a paring knife,
carving away all warmth.

Alas, the children laugh no more,
but shiver in their beds
or’ll walk to school through blinding snow
with caps to keep their heads
safe from the cruel cold.

Oh, where are the showers of April
and where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?

Where are the lovely maidens
who browned ’neath the flaming sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?

This is one of the earliest poems that I can remember writing. The use of “’neath” is an indication of its antiquity. Unfortunately, I don’t remember exactly when I wrote the first version, but I will guess around 1972 at age 14.

Gainsboro(ugh), circa age 15
by Michael R. Burch

Times forgotten, times reviled
were all you gave this child, beguiled,
besides one ghostly memory
to haunt him down Life’s winding wild.

And though his character was formed
somewhere within your lightless shade,
not a fragment of the man
that he became today remains

anywhere within the gloom
cast by your dark insidious trees ...
for fleeting dreams and memories
are only dreams and memories.

According to my memory and notes, I wrote the first version of this poem around 1973, circa age 15, revised it in 1978, then finally completed it a mere 48 years later at age 63! I actually have quite a few memories of Gainsborough and none are as dark as the poem might make it seem. The poem is really a complaint about life on earth resulting in divisions and losses. Gainsborough is mostly lost to me, and I am entirely lost to Gainsborough. We are divided by time and distance, and while I hazily remember Gainsborough, I’m sure Gainsborough remembers me not at all, since I was so small and insignificant when we knew each other. However, if a poet is read, he may be remembered...

Red Dawn, circa age 14
by Michael R. Burch

The sun, like a spotlight,
is spinning round the trees
a web of light.

And with her amber radiance
she is
driving off the night.

Oh, how like a fire
she is
burning off the black.

And in her flaming wake
she has left a track
of puffy smoke.

I believe this is one of my very earliest poems, written around age 14, due to the fact that the original poem had three somewhat archaic apostrophes: ’round, ’way and ’luminance. I weaned myself of such things pretty quickly. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1975. "Red Dawn" appeared in my high school journal but has not been otherwise published or submitted.

Michael R. Burch is an American poet who lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Beth, their son Jeremy, two outrageously spoiled puppies and a talkative parakeet. Burch's poems, translations, essays, articles, reviews, short stories, epigrams, quotes, puns, jokes and letters have appeared more than 9,000 times in publications which include TIME, USA Today, The Hindu, BBC Radio 3, CNN.com, Daily Kos, The Washington Post and hundreds of literary journals, websites and blogs. Please click here for the Bio and Curriculum Vitae of Michael R. Burch.

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