Poems I Pruned
These are poems I clipped and "shrunk to size" because a few lines seemed better than the longer version.
When the words won’t tune,
prune!
— Michael R. Burch
As a beginning poet, around age 15, I destroyed every poem I had written in a fit of pique, after concluding that I wasn’t rivaling my idols. But it later occurred to me that I could “prune” poems down to their best lines, and these are some of those…
Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do stars
applaud the glowworm’s stellar mimicry?
—excerpt from “Mayflies” by Michael R. Burch
Later there’ll be talk of saving whales
over racks of lamb and flambéed snails.
—“After the Poetry Recital” by Michael R. Burch
A question that sometimes drives me hazy:
am I or are the others crazy?
—Albert Einstein, poetic interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love is either wholly folly
or fully holy.
—Michael R. Burch
“Kin” is one of my favorite “brief encounters.”
Kin
by Michael R. Burch
O pale, austere moon,
haughty beauty …
what do we know of love,
or duty?
“Ophelia” was inspired and influenced by a poem of the same title by my friend Kevin Roberts.
Ophelia
by Michael R. Burch
for Kevin N. Roberts
Ophelia, madness suits you well,
as the ocean sounds in an empty shell,
as the moon shines brightest in a starless sky,
as suns supernova before they die …
“The Shrinking Season” is another favorite.
The Shrinking Season
by Michael R. Burch
With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.
“Sinking” is another one of my favorite “shortcuts” (if you’ll pardon the pun).
Sinking
by Michael R. Burch
for Virginia Woolf
Weigh me down with stones ...
fill all the pockets of my gown ...
I’m going down,
mad as the world
that can’t recover,
to where even mermaids drown.
“Dry Hump” was excerpted from the longer poem “Water and Gold” although this is a rare case where I think the longer poem is better. What do you think? Please let me know in the comments.
Dry Hump
by Michael R. Burch
You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joys are wan illusions to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.
Water and Gold
by Michael R. Burch
You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joys are wan illusions to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.
You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.
You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.
I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.
Originally published by The Lyric
EARLY POEMS
“Styx” may have been the first poem that I pruned as teenage poet. I still consider it one of my best shorter poems.
Styx
by Michael R. Burch
Black waters,
deep and dark and still …
all men have passed this way,
or will.
”Leave Taking” started out as a stanza in a much longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song," that dates to around age 14-16. The longer poem appears later on this page in the category “Longer Versions.”
Leave Taking
by Michael R. Burch
Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs
to waltz upon ecstatic winds
until they die.
But the barren and embittered trees,
lament the frolic of the leaves
and curse the bleak November sky ...
Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight
before the fading autumn light,
I think that, perhaps, at last I may
have learned what it means to say—
goodbye.
“Observance” was the first poem that made me feel like a poet, and it was one of the first poems I pruned, circa age 17.
Observance
by Michael R. Burch
Here the hills are old and rolling
casually in their old age;
on the horizon youthful mountains
bathe themselves in windblown fountains …
By dying leaves and falling raindrops,
I have traced time's starts and stops,
and I have known the years to pass
almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops …
For here the valleys fill with sunlight
to the brim, then empty again,
and it seems that only I notice
how the years flood out, and in …
“Infinity” was another teenage poem that I pruned while still in high school, circa age 18 or perhaps a bit younger.
Infinity
by Michael R. Burch
Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?
Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air
that your heart sought its shell like a crab on a beach,
then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?
Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage
on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?
Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,
have dreamed of infinity … windswept and blue.
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens or perhaps around age 20 or thereabouts. It has since been published by The Lyric, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and The Aurorean.
The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch
The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.
The weak implore Fate;
bold men ravish, dishevel her ...
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.
“Dust” is one of my earliest poems, written circa age 14. It was at one time the closing stanza of “All My Children,” written before "Jessamyn’s Song" if I remember correctly. “All My Children” appears in the “Longer Versions” section.
Dust
by Michael R. Burch
God, keep them safe until
I join them, as I will.
God, guard their tender dust
until I meet them, as I must.
LATER PRUNINGS
Thirty
by Michael R. Burch
Thirty crept upon me slowly
with feline caution and a slowly-twitching tail …
How patiently she waited for the winds to shift!
Now, claws unsheathed, she lies seething to assail
her helpless prey.
“Brevity” was inspired by my friend Richard Moore, who cautioned me about using more words than necessary.
Brevity or The Whole of Wit
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
If brevity is the soul of wit
then brevity and levity
are the whole of it.
“The Harvest of Roses” was once considerably longer but became one of my favorite “whittlings.”
The Harvest of Roses
by Michael R. Burch
for Kevin N. Roberts
I have not come for the harvest of roses—
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme …
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.
Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer—
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.
“Goddess” was the very first poem in the first issue of Romantics Quarterly.
Goddess
by Michael R. Burch
for Kevin N. Roberts
"What will you conceive in me?"
I asked her. But she
only smiled.
"Naked, I bore your child
when the wolf wind howled,
when the cold moon scowled …
naked, and gladly."
"What will become of me?"
I asked her, as she
absently stroked my hand.
Centuries later, I understand;
she whispered, "I Am."
“Moments” could have been longer, but I stopped while I was (hopefully) ahead.
Moments
by Michael R. Burch
There were moments full of promise,
like the petal-scented rainfall of early spring,
when to hold you in my arms and to kiss your willing lips
seemed everything.
There are moments strangely empty
full of pale unearthly twilight—how the cold stars stare!—
when to be without you is a dark enchantment
the night and I share.
When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar." The longer poem had something about “summer sun and cotton candy” if I remember things correctly.
hey pete
by Michael R. Burch
for Pete Rose
hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.
In this Ordinary Swoon
by Michael R. Burch
In this ordinary swoon
as I pass from life to death,
I feel no heat from the cold, pale moon;
I feel no sympathy for breath.
Who I am and why I came,
I do not know; nor does it matter.
The end of every man’s the same
and every god’s as mad as a hatter.
I do not fear the letting go;
I only fear the clinging on
to hope when there’s no hope, although
I lift my face to the blazing sun
and feel the greater intensity
of the wilder inferno within me.
Second Sight
by Michael R. Burch
I never touched you—
that was my mistake.
Deep within,
I still feel the ache.
Can an unformed thing
eternally break?
Now, from a great distance,
I see you again
not as you are now,
but as you were then—
eternally present
and Sovereign.
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~~~underwater~~~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath's weightless bubbles ….
both worlds grow obscure.
LONGER VERSIONS
If you prefer the longer versions to the shorter ones, please let me know in the comments.
"Jessamyn's Song" was inspired by Claude Monet’s oil painting "The Walk, Woman with a Parasol," which I interpreted as a walk in a meadow or heather. The woman’s dress and captivating loveliness made me think of an impending wedding, with dances and festivities. The boy made me think of a family. I gave the woman a name, Jessamyn, and wrote her story, thinking along these lines, while in high school. The opening lines were influenced by "Fern Hill" by the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, one of my boyhood favorites and still a favorite today. "Jessamyn's Song" was substantially complete by around age 16, my first long poem, although I was not happy with the longer poem, overall, and eventually published the closing stanza as an independent poem, "Leave Taking." I have touched up the longer poem here and there over the last half century, but it remains substantially the same as the original poem.
Jessamyn's Song
by Michael R. Burch
16
There are meadows heathered with thoughts of you,
where the honeysuckle winds
in fragrant, tangled vines
down to the water's edge.
Through the wind-bent grass I watch time pass
slow with the dying day
on its lolling, rolling way ...
And I know you’ll soon be mine.
17
There are oak trees haggard and gnarled by Time
where the shrewd squirrel makes his lair,
sleeping through winters unaware
of the white commotion below.
By the waning sun I keep watch upon
the earth as she spins—so slow!—
and I know within
they're absolved from sin
who sleep beneath the snow.
They have no sin, and we sin not
although we sleep and dream in bliss
while others rage, and charge ... and die,
and all our nights’ elations miss.
For life is ours, and through our veins
it pulses with a tranquil flow,
though in others’ it may surge and froth
and carry passions to and fro.
18
By murmuring streams I sometimes dream
of whirling reels, of taut bows lancing,
when my partner’s the prettiest dancing,
and she is always you.
So let the meadows rest in peace,
and let the woodlands lie ...
Life’s the pulse in your heart and in mine—
let us not let it die.
19
By the windmill we have often kissed
as your clothing slipped,
exposing pale breasts and paler hips
to the naked glory of the sun.
Yes, my darling, I do love you
with all my wicked heart.
Promise that you'll be my bride
and these lips will never part
for any other’s.
20
There are daisies plaited through the fields
that make the valleys shine
(though the darker hawthorns wind
up to the highest ledge).
As the rising sun
blinks lazily on
the horizon’s eastern edge,
I watch the tangerine dawn
congeal to a brighter lime.
Oh, the season I love best is fall—
the trees coyly shedding their leaves, and all
creation watching, in thrall.
And you in your wedding dress, so calm,
seem less of this earth than the sky.
I expect you at any moment to
ascend through the brightening dimensionless blue
to softly go floating by—
a cloud or a pure-white butterfly.
21
There are rivers sparkling bright as spring
and others somber as the Nile,
but whether they may frown or smile,
none can match this brilliant stream
beside whose banks I lie and dream;
her waters, flowing swift, yet mild,
lull to sleep my new-born child!
22
There are mountains purple and pocked with Time,
home to goats and misfit trees ...
in lofty grandeur above vexed seas
they lift their haughty heads.
When the sun explodes over tonsured domes
and bright fountains splash in youthful ruin
against strange bizarre antediluvian runes
of tales to this day untold ...
I taste with my eyes the dawn's harsh gold
and breathe the frigid mountain air,
drinking deeply, wondering where
the magic days of youth have flown.
23
There are forests aged and ripe with rain
that loom at the brink of the trout's blue home.
There deer go to feast of the frothy foam,
to lap the gurgling water.
In murky shallows, swamped with slime,
the largemouth bass now sleeps,
his muddy memories dark and deep,
safe 'neath the sodden loam.
And often I have wondered
how it must feel to sleep
for timeless ages, fathoms deep
within a winter dream.
26
By the window ledge where the candle begs
the night for light to live,
the deepening darkness gives
the heart good cause to shudder.
For there are curly, tousled heads
that know one use for bed
and not any other ...
“Goodnight father.”
“Goodnight mother.”
“Goodnight sister.”
“Goodnight brother.”
“Tomorrow new adventures
we surely shall discover!”
30
Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs
to waltz upon ecstatic winds
until they die.
But the barren and embittered trees,
lament the frolic of the leaves
and curse the bleak November sky.
Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight
before the fading autumn light,
I think that, perhaps, at last I may
have learned what it means to say
goodbye.
“All My Children” 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 as a teenager about a mother who clung as tenaciously to the memory of her children. The line "It is May now, gentle May" popped into my head and helped me locate the poem in my archives. I believe I wrote this poem about the same time as "Jessamyn's Song," which would place it around 1972-1974 at age 14-16, 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 and twenties. It feels a bit “younger” than "Jessamyn's Song" so I will guess 1972. It is admittedly a sentimental poem, but then human beings are sentimental creatures.
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 these ardent gardens,
on the graves of all my children ...
But they never did depart;
they still live within my heart.
I can see why these are your favorites, Michael. They're lovely.