Looking back at the volume, range and quality of Mike's work over the past 50+ years - beginning here, age 14/15 - the question must surely be asked: Is Michael R. Burch one of the world's best living poets? Surely he, if anybody, should be appointed U.S. poet laureate, like Robert Frost, Elizabeth Bishop, Louise Bogan and other distinguished poets before him?
Martin, you're making me blush! But it makes me happy that you think that highly of my work, knowing how you love poetry and are a great and wide reader of poetry.
One is even happily willing to pronounce "unto" in a way that perfectly rhymes; happy, that is--nor with any hesitation--to oblige his wish that the word be sounded with the accent falling on "-to," just as he no doubt intended it should be. The poem really is remarkable. It could easily have inspired Larkin's fine poem "Wants," the refrain of which is exactly the same as "Sleep, the end of all desire." As Larkin puts it: "Under it all, desire of oblivion runs." Some juveniles possess remarkable understanding. a rare endowment in one of any age. He (like Shelley) drowned. I have wondered it it was by choice or accident.
Yes, a remarkable poem for the poet's age, or any age. I just checked and you may be pleased to know that Dolben is among THT's top 50 poets for 2024 so far. I will refeature his page to give it an additional boost.
With regard to childhood, when occasionally asked about my memories of it, I have often replied "First they tried to kill me, then they tried to silence me." It refers to a surgery I had inflicted on me as a toddler. I was on my back in a hospital bed. There was an adult on each side of it, and together, holding it between them, they brought down on my face some cloth object saturated with ether. I struggled against suffocation I remember, but it must've been over in a second. Next thing I knew, I was waking up, and had the distinct impression there was a cork in my throat.
I think I did worry about death as a child, but I hardly remember really. I remember that hospital experience though, no doubt because it was traumatic.
It was a pleasure to read about your journey, Mike. Many artists whom we know today started dabbling in their crafts at an early age. Thomas Chatterton, the young British lad who took his own life due to numerous rejections from publishers, had produced some wonderful works. Teenage is a rich wellspring of creativity. Many dawdle it away, but it's good to know that you used that time to build your craft. Also, I'm happy to see Setu on your publication list. From what I know, it's (or was, if defunct) a prestigious Indian journal. Thank you for your guidance, help, and friendship.
Thanks for your input, Shamik. I have done translations of Thomas Chatterton's "Rowley" poems and he was held in high regard by the great English Romantics, who considered him their forefather and trailblazer. Setu is still publishing, edited by Sunil Sharma, who is a fine poet. In fact, you should submit poems there and tell Sunil that I recommended you to him!
I just so happen to be married to Michael Burch (for over 30 years), and before anyone accuses me of bias…Duh? Although I may be biased, I recognize greatness when I see it. For anyone to make a comment like John Martin did after reading such a beautiful, heartfelt and powerful example of someone’s journey through life… well, it seems unwarranted or just petty. I do believe my husband is one of the greatest living poets of our time, and does rank among the greatest poets of all time. His poems will be cherished and revered by future lovers of poetry, and even now he generously spends a good amount of his time working with, and encouraging young poets, so they can reach their full potential. Mike is also self deprecating, with an excellent sense of humor, is his own worst critic and doesn’t suffer fools lightly. In other words, he’s a human being, an extraordinarily talented one at that. So when I see someone like Mr. Martin attempt to demean Mike or his work, it just comes across the sour grapes, or perhaps Mr. Martin has somehow lost touch with what is most important in all of us… Our humanity, and that just makes me sad for him.
Beth, after 30 years of marriage, can confirm that I have a sense of humor and have written many humorous, self-deprecating poems. Also, I have been published by some of the best publishers of humorous poetry, including LIGHT, Lighten Up Online, Asses of Parnassus, Brief Poems, Poem Today, and others.
I don't parade my juvenilia and expect them to be taken seriously. Poetry is memorable wisdom. And wisdom comes with maturity. And hopefully increases with age. Of course I don't mean that one aims at wisdom in any particular poem. That wouldn't be wise. And nor will one always achieve it. One simply opens oneself up to the promptings of the muse, safe in the knowledge that she is far wiser than we will ever be. Man isn't called 'homo sapiens' for no reason, since it is precisely man's capacity for sapience that distinguishes him from the other animals. And poetry is valued by the general reading public for its memorable wisdom. That's why it gets quoted.
I'm sorry if Michael's feelings have been hurt. That wasn't the intention. I'm feeling in a very Byronic mood at the moment. And I find it difficult not to compare Michael's trumpetings with Rowland Hughes's far quieter and - on the face of it - much more sensitive and perceptive asseverations.
My feelings are not hurt, I always consider the source. If you think your poems are "better" than the juvenilia of Keats, Shelly and Cummings, guess again.
JUVENILIA
Marjorie Fleming learned to read at age three―preferring adult books―and died at age eight; Robert Louis Stevenson called her "the noblest work of God."
I love the morning's sun to spy
Glittering through the casement's eye.
Marshall Ball wrote his first poem, "Altogether Lovely," at age five despite being unable to speak or move his hands; he "wrote" by looking at alphabet blocks that his parents assembled into words, then poems.
I love seeing Grandmother.
Her golden pleasant smile touches,
like the wings of a bird,
the ramparts of my mind.
Elizabeth Barrett (later Browning), wrote her first poem at age six and had her first collection of poems published at age fourteen. This excerpt is from a long poem, "The Battle of Marathon," that she apparently wrote some time before her fourteenth birthday.
"Die! thy base shade to gloomy regions fled,
Join there, the shivering phantoms of the dead.
Base slave, return to dust!"
Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote "Verses on a Cat" at age eight. Percy Shelley's early poems were collected in The Esdaile Notebook, which was published in 1961 by Oxford University Press in England and by Harvard University Press in the United States. The original notebook contained 57 poems occupying 189 pages. The poems were apparently written from age sixteen to age twenty. This excerpt was written as a disaffected Shelley left London for Wales:
Let me forever be what I have been,
But not forever at my needy door
Let Misery linger, speechless, pale and lean.
I am the friend of the unfriended poor;
Let me not madly stain their righteous cause in gore.
Around age ten, Thomas Chatterton wrote his first published poem, "On the Last Epiphany, or, Christ Coming to Judgment." The short poem "Bristol" was written when Chatterton was sixteen:
The Muses have no Credit here; and Fame
Confines itself to the mercantile name.
Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still;
I scorn her Prudence, and I ever will.
Since all my vices magnify'd are here,
She cannot paint me worse than I appear.
When raving in the lunacy of ink,
I catch the Pen and publish what I think.
At age ten, Alfred Tennyson was writing "hundreds and hundreds of lines in regular Popeian metre."
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
Oscar Wilde may have begun writing "Requiescat," his wonderful elegy to his sister Isola, around age twelve; he published a number of poems in his teens.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
On a personal note, I read the Bible from cover to cover around age ten or eleven. Sometime after reading the Bible, between the ages of 11 and 13, I came up with the following epigram:
If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
—Michael R. Burch
Alexander Pope wrote his famous poem "Ode to Solitude" at age twelve.
Christina Rossetti began to record the dates of her poems at age twelve.
Robert Browning's parents attempted to publish a book of his poems, Incondita, when he was age twelve. He would later destroy the manuscript.
Paul Simon wrote his first song, "The Girl for Me," at age twelve.
Anne Frank started her famous diary at age thirteen.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge started writing his monody to Thomas Chatterton at age thirteen.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow published his first poem in the Portland Gazette at age thirteen, "The Battle of Lovell's Pond."
William Cullen Bryant had a satirical poem "The Embargo" published at age thirteen.
Lord Byron had poems written at age fourteen published in Fugitive Pieces, but the book was recalled and burned because some of the poems were too "hot"!
Edgar Allan Poe is writing poems to woo girls at age fourteen; he writes "To Helen" around age fifteen after being inspired by the slender, graceful figure of a friend's mother!
Stephen Crane wrote the short story "Uncle Jake and the Bell Handle" at age fourteen.
Arthur Rimbaud was published at age fifteen; he retired from writing at age nineteen to become a soldier and smuggler!
Robert Burns, generally considered to be the greatest of the Scottish bards, wrote a love poem at age fifteen.
According to Thomas Seccombe, William Blake's "How Sweet I Roamed" was written around age fifteen.
W. H. Auden began writing poems at age fifteen.
Philip Larkin began writing poems around the same age, and Auden was one of his early influences!
Taylor Swift wrote her song "Love Story" at age sixteen.
Lorde wrote her song "Royals" with its "different kind of buzz" at age sixteen.
George Michael wrote the song "Careless Whisper" at age seventeen.
S. E. Hinton wrote her first book at age fifteen and published her best-selling novel The Outsiders at age eighteen.
Alfred Tennyson and his two elder brothers had a book of poems published when he was seventeen.
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the wife of Percy Bysshe Shelley, began work on her famous gothic horror novel Frankenstein at age eighteen, while they were visiting Lord Byron. All three are on this list.
Alicia Keys wrote her stunning debut single and smash hit "Fallin'" at age twenty.
That was a fine comeback, Mike. I was thinking of all of the immensely talented adolescent poets and songwriters as I was reading this exchange. I’m very glad you mentioned Taylor Swift, by the way. I have seen many people be dismissive (at best) of her songwriting abilities; meanwhile, many of them probably couldn’t write a song or a poem to save their lives. Swift’s albums “folklore” and “evermore” have been especially big influences on my work.
While I'm not a Swiftie, I think her song "Back to December" is a masterpiece and I'm sure she has others, if I had time to keep up. Singer-songwriters were a big influence on my early poetry, including Sam Cooke, Bob Dylan, Carole King, Neil Diamond and Paul Simon.
For what it's worth I my first poem when I was eight and I was in hospital having my tonsils out - there were a lot of surgeons left over from the war who couldn't find anything better to do with their time than mess about with the bodies of unprotesting children.
It was addressed to my mother and went like this:
When I put on my trousers
I'm glad I don't wear blouses.
When I put on my shirt
I'm glad I don't wear skirts.
As you can see, I was still a long way from achieving any sort of mature texture or adult complexity. But at least my heart was in the right place. And I was already determined to prove myself an adult heterosexual male: none of that alphabet nonsense for me!
Your last comment proves you are less than wise, even today. Your lack of talent at age eight doesn't mean Mozart couldn't compose symphonies at age five.
It's a common misconception that poetry is for adolescents, perhaps left over from the worst extravagances of the Romantics. But of course, if I am right about wisdom, and I'm sure I am - as far as my philosophy of creative ambivalence will allow me to be - then the exact opposite has to be the case, so long as one is wise enough to allow the innocence and spontaneity of childhood survive that long. But isn't that exactly what wisdom is all about?
You have apparently not read or are unable to appreciate the juvenilia of poets like John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, e.e. cummings, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, et al. Are you going to claim that your poems are "better" just because you're older? Would that absurd claim make you "wise"? I doubt that anyone else will agree that you are "right about wisdom" and there have been great poems that are not necessarily wise. Poetry is not a one-trick pony just because John Martin says it is.
I beg your pardon, but did you even read Mike’s Substack post, or did you merely skim through it and then move on to doing what you do best (i.e. leaving a snide remark)? If you had bothered to read this fine article, you would have noticed that Mike does indeed make fun of himself numerous times. The following example made me burst out laughing:
“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!”
This is another great example of Mike’s self-deprecating sense of humor:
“However, I was a perfectionist and poetry can be very tough on perfectionists. I remember becoming incredibly frustrated and angry with myself. Why wasn’t I writing poetry like Shelley and Keats at age fifteen? I destroyed all my poems in a fit of pique.”
I find this and other aspects of Mike’s story to be incredibly relatable. I think it is an inspiring, real-life story that tells how a young poet who was “testing his wings” (to borrow a phrase from Mike) went on to become one of the greatest poets of all time. In fact, I think he had more talent in his little finger as an adolescent than most adult poets have in their entire bodies. I beg your pardon, but have you written anything that remotely comes close to “Infinity” or “Leave Taking”? No worries, Mr. Martin; I haven’t either!
Lastly, I would like to add that I have found Mike to be incredibly kind, intelligent, funny, and generous. He has done so much to help me with my work ever since he first reached out to me this past December, and he has been a tremendous source of encouragement. If something is amiss with one of my poems, he always points out the issue in a kind and considerate way and then offers suggestions as to how I can improve the piece. The results have been phenomenal. He is never overbearing or pushy, and he’s always a real joy to work with. I will always be thankful for all the help and encouragement he has given me. Mike is a real gentleman, and I feel so blessed to have him as a mentor and a friend.
This is a truly outrageous insult. Michael R. Burch is a true master, in my opinion the greatest English poet since William Wordsworth. His magnificent Ars Poetica is one of the finest poems I've ever read.
I've used Mr. Burch's masterpieces as inspiration for my own work; he's kindly deigned to publish some of them. For example, consider this poem of mine:
A Mother’s Love
Which is more beautiful:
A sunset, or a mother’s love?
A mother comforts her child on Earth,
But a sunset lights only the sky above.
Which is stronger: a grand oak tree,
Or a mother’s love for her little one?
Oaks can be felled by a logger’s axe
But a mother’s love cannot be undone.
Which is sweeter: a sugar cube,
Or a mother’s words of tender care?
Sugar can be digested
But a mother’s words will forever endure.
More beautiful than a glorious sunset,
Stronger than a great oak tree,
Sweeter than a sugar cube...
Who but our mothers could it be?
Mr. Burch also kindly pointed out a minor grammatical error in the following sonnet, my Sonnet LXXII:
The most marvelous poems that were ever written
Were insulted by jealous, unskilled bards.
Why are great poets by such people bitten?
The truth is that it is terribly hard
For a poet who writes not with sweet nectar but plain ink––
Who writes in little more than tedious prose––
To see beautiful verse…it must make them think
About how they cannot write anything as good! So all those
Whose poetry is gorgeous as a sunset,
Brings as many tears to the eye as an onion cut,
Makes audiences weep and applaud––their poems fret
The poetasters…hurt them in their gut…
So they insult and mock the beautiful poems they envy.
That is the truth, it’s plain as day to see.
Were it not for Mr. Burch, I would still be an unpublished poet. Who knows how many masterpieces he's inspired?
Looking back at the volume, range and quality of Mike's work over the past 50+ years - beginning here, age 14/15 - the question must surely be asked: Is Michael R. Burch one of the world's best living poets? Surely he, if anybody, should be appointed U.S. poet laureate, like Robert Frost, Elizabeth Bishop, Louise Bogan and other distinguished poets before him?
Martin, you're making me blush! But it makes me happy that you think that highly of my work, knowing how you love poetry and are a great and wide reader of poetry.
All of Digby Dolben's poems--which Robert Bridges saw to it got published-- were written in his teens.
He died at 19. Hopkins was somewhat infatuated with him. An example:
Far Above The Shaken Trees
Far above the shaken trees,
In the pale blue palaces,
Laugh the high gods at their ease:
We with tossèd incense woo them,
We with all abasement sue them,
But shall never climb unto them,
Nor see their faces.
Sweet my sister, Queen of Hades,
Where the quiet and the shade is,
Of the cruel deathless ladies
Thou art pitiful alone.
Unto thee I make my moan,
Who the ways of earth hast known
And her green places.
Feed me with thy lotus-flowers,
Lay me in thy sunless bowers,
Whither shall the heavy hours
Never trail their hated feet,
Making bitter all things sweet;
Nevermore shall creep to meet
The perished dead.
There 'mid shades innumerable,
There in meads of asphodel,
Sleeping ever, sleeping well,
They who toiled and who aspired,
They, the lovely and desired,
With the nations of the tired
Have made their bed.
There is neither fast nor feast,
None is greatest, none is least;
Times and orders all have ceased.
There the bay-leaf is not seen;
Clean is foul and foul is clean;
Shame and glory, these have been
But shall not be.
When we pass away in fire,
What is found beyond the pyre?
Sleep, the end of all desire.
Lo, for this the heroes fought;
This the gem the merchant bought,
This the seal of laboured thought
And subtilty.
Yes, I remember us publishing a number of Digby Dolben's poems years ago, including this splendid example. Thanks for sharing it.
One is even happily willing to pronounce "unto" in a way that perfectly rhymes; happy, that is--nor with any hesitation--to oblige his wish that the word be sounded with the accent falling on "-to," just as he no doubt intended it should be. The poem really is remarkable. It could easily have inspired Larkin's fine poem "Wants," the refrain of which is exactly the same as "Sleep, the end of all desire." As Larkin puts it: "Under it all, desire of oblivion runs." Some juveniles possess remarkable understanding. a rare endowment in one of any age. He (like Shelley) drowned. I have wondered it it was by choice or accident.
Yes, a remarkable poem for the poet's age, or any age. I just checked and you may be pleased to know that Dolben is among THT's top 50 poets for 2024 so far. I will refeature his page to give it an additional boost.
The more remarkable for his age, that he comprehended life's "benisons" so young, so uncompromisingly, and so accurately. A phenom I'd say.
Yes, he "got it" younger than most. Some never do, apparently.
The first longish poem I wrote, around age 13, was a wisdom poem that began:
Happiness is like a bubble,
What's fine now will soon be trouble...
It went on to predict doom for the brief bubbles of happiness.
My first substantial poem, written around age 14, also predicted doom:
Playmates
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.
Originally published by The Lyric
Yes, it would be fair to say he got it.
With regard to childhood, when occasionally asked about my memories of it, I have often replied "First they tried to kill me, then they tried to silence me." It refers to a surgery I had inflicted on me as a toddler. I was on my back in a hospital bed. There was an adult on each side of it, and together, holding it between them, they brought down on my face some cloth object saturated with ether. I struggled against suffocation I remember, but it must've been over in a second. Next thing I knew, I was waking up, and had the distinct impression there was a cork in my throat.
I think I did worry about death as a child, but I hardly remember really. I remember that hospital experience though, no doubt because it was traumatic.
It was a pleasure to read about your journey, Mike. Many artists whom we know today started dabbling in their crafts at an early age. Thomas Chatterton, the young British lad who took his own life due to numerous rejections from publishers, had produced some wonderful works. Teenage is a rich wellspring of creativity. Many dawdle it away, but it's good to know that you used that time to build your craft. Also, I'm happy to see Setu on your publication list. From what I know, it's (or was, if defunct) a prestigious Indian journal. Thank you for your guidance, help, and friendship.
Thanks for your input, Shamik. I have done translations of Thomas Chatterton's "Rowley" poems and he was held in high regard by the great English Romantics, who considered him their forefather and trailblazer. Setu is still publishing, edited by Sunil Sharma, who is a fine poet. In fact, you should submit poems there and tell Sunil that I recommended you to him!
Well... You given me the title of my latest poem, for which I thank you: 'Arse Poetica'!
(For some reason my work has become somewhat anal of late.)
What a pity you can't poke fun at yourself occasionally.
I have poked fun at myself in a number of my poems, thank you very much.
I just so happen to be married to Michael Burch (for over 30 years), and before anyone accuses me of bias…Duh? Although I may be biased, I recognize greatness when I see it. For anyone to make a comment like John Martin did after reading such a beautiful, heartfelt and powerful example of someone’s journey through life… well, it seems unwarranted or just petty. I do believe my husband is one of the greatest living poets of our time, and does rank among the greatest poets of all time. His poems will be cherished and revered by future lovers of poetry, and even now he generously spends a good amount of his time working with, and encouraging young poets, so they can reach their full potential. Mike is also self deprecating, with an excellent sense of humor, is his own worst critic and doesn’t suffer fools lightly. In other words, he’s a human being, an extraordinarily talented one at that. So when I see someone like Mr. Martin attempt to demean Mike or his work, it just comes across the sour grapes, or perhaps Mr. Martin has somehow lost touch with what is most important in all of us… Our humanity, and that just makes me sad for him.
Beth, after 30 years of marriage, can confirm that I have a sense of humor and have written many humorous, self-deprecating poems. Also, I have been published by some of the best publishers of humorous poetry, including LIGHT, Lighten Up Online, Asses of Parnassus, Brief Poems, Poem Today, and others.
I don't parade my juvenilia and expect them to be taken seriously. Poetry is memorable wisdom. And wisdom comes with maturity. And hopefully increases with age. Of course I don't mean that one aims at wisdom in any particular poem. That wouldn't be wise. And nor will one always achieve it. One simply opens oneself up to the promptings of the muse, safe in the knowledge that she is far wiser than we will ever be. Man isn't called 'homo sapiens' for no reason, since it is precisely man's capacity for sapience that distinguishes him from the other animals. And poetry is valued by the general reading public for its memorable wisdom. That's why it gets quoted.
I'm sorry if Michael's feelings have been hurt. That wasn't the intention. I'm feeling in a very Byronic mood at the moment. And I find it difficult not to compare Michael's trumpetings with Rowland Hughes's far quieter and - on the face of it - much more sensitive and perceptive asseverations.
My feelings are not hurt, I always consider the source. If you think your poems are "better" than the juvenilia of Keats, Shelly and Cummings, guess again.
JUVENILIA
Marjorie Fleming learned to read at age three―preferring adult books―and died at age eight; Robert Louis Stevenson called her "the noblest work of God."
I love the morning's sun to spy
Glittering through the casement's eye.
Marshall Ball wrote his first poem, "Altogether Lovely," at age five despite being unable to speak or move his hands; he "wrote" by looking at alphabet blocks that his parents assembled into words, then poems.
I love seeing Grandmother.
Her golden pleasant smile touches,
like the wings of a bird,
the ramparts of my mind.
Elizabeth Barrett (later Browning), wrote her first poem at age six and had her first collection of poems published at age fourteen. This excerpt is from a long poem, "The Battle of Marathon," that she apparently wrote some time before her fourteenth birthday.
"Die! thy base shade to gloomy regions fled,
Join there, the shivering phantoms of the dead.
Base slave, return to dust!"
Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote "Verses on a Cat" at age eight. Percy Shelley's early poems were collected in The Esdaile Notebook, which was published in 1961 by Oxford University Press in England and by Harvard University Press in the United States. The original notebook contained 57 poems occupying 189 pages. The poems were apparently written from age sixteen to age twenty. This excerpt was written as a disaffected Shelley left London for Wales:
Let me forever be what I have been,
But not forever at my needy door
Let Misery linger, speechless, pale and lean.
I am the friend of the unfriended poor;
Let me not madly stain their righteous cause in gore.
Around age ten, Thomas Chatterton wrote his first published poem, "On the Last Epiphany, or, Christ Coming to Judgment." The short poem "Bristol" was written when Chatterton was sixteen:
The Muses have no Credit here; and Fame
Confines itself to the mercantile name.
Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still;
I scorn her Prudence, and I ever will.
Since all my vices magnify'd are here,
She cannot paint me worse than I appear.
When raving in the lunacy of ink,
I catch the Pen and publish what I think.
At age ten, Alfred Tennyson was writing "hundreds and hundreds of lines in regular Popeian metre."
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
Oscar Wilde may have begun writing "Requiescat," his wonderful elegy to his sister Isola, around age twelve; he published a number of poems in his teens.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
On a personal note, I read the Bible from cover to cover around age ten or eleven. Sometime after reading the Bible, between the ages of 11 and 13, I came up with the following epigram:
If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
—Michael R. Burch
Alexander Pope wrote his famous poem "Ode to Solitude" at age twelve.
Christina Rossetti began to record the dates of her poems at age twelve.
Robert Browning's parents attempted to publish a book of his poems, Incondita, when he was age twelve. He would later destroy the manuscript.
Paul Simon wrote his first song, "The Girl for Me," at age twelve.
Anne Frank started her famous diary at age thirteen.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge started writing his monody to Thomas Chatterton at age thirteen.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow published his first poem in the Portland Gazette at age thirteen, "The Battle of Lovell's Pond."
William Cullen Bryant had a satirical poem "The Embargo" published at age thirteen.
Lord Byron had poems written at age fourteen published in Fugitive Pieces, but the book was recalled and burned because some of the poems were too "hot"!
Edgar Allan Poe is writing poems to woo girls at age fourteen; he writes "To Helen" around age fifteen after being inspired by the slender, graceful figure of a friend's mother!
Stephen Crane wrote the short story "Uncle Jake and the Bell Handle" at age fourteen.
Arthur Rimbaud was published at age fifteen; he retired from writing at age nineteen to become a soldier and smuggler!
Robert Burns, generally considered to be the greatest of the Scottish bards, wrote a love poem at age fifteen.
According to Thomas Seccombe, William Blake's "How Sweet I Roamed" was written around age fifteen.
W. H. Auden began writing poems at age fifteen.
Philip Larkin began writing poems around the same age, and Auden was one of his early influences!
Taylor Swift wrote her song "Love Story" at age sixteen.
Lorde wrote her song "Royals" with its "different kind of buzz" at age sixteen.
George Michael wrote the song "Careless Whisper" at age seventeen.
S. E. Hinton wrote her first book at age fifteen and published her best-selling novel The Outsiders at age eighteen.
Alfred Tennyson and his two elder brothers had a book of poems published when he was seventeen.
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the wife of Percy Bysshe Shelley, began work on her famous gothic horror novel Frankenstein at age eighteen, while they were visiting Lord Byron. All three are on this list.
Alicia Keys wrote her stunning debut single and smash hit "Fallin'" at age twenty.
That was a fine comeback, Mike. I was thinking of all of the immensely talented adolescent poets and songwriters as I was reading this exchange. I’m very glad you mentioned Taylor Swift, by the way. I have seen many people be dismissive (at best) of her songwriting abilities; meanwhile, many of them probably couldn’t write a song or a poem to save their lives. Swift’s albums “folklore” and “evermore” have been especially big influences on my work.
While I'm not a Swiftie, I think her song "Back to December" is a masterpiece and I'm sure she has others, if I had time to keep up. Singer-songwriters were a big influence on my early poetry, including Sam Cooke, Bob Dylan, Carole King, Neil Diamond and Paul Simon.
For what it's worth I my first poem when I was eight and I was in hospital having my tonsils out - there were a lot of surgeons left over from the war who couldn't find anything better to do with their time than mess about with the bodies of unprotesting children.
It was addressed to my mother and went like this:
When I put on my trousers
I'm glad I don't wear blouses.
When I put on my shirt
I'm glad I don't wear skirts.
As you can see, I was still a long way from achieving any sort of mature texture or adult complexity. But at least my heart was in the right place. And I was already determined to prove myself an adult heterosexual male: none of that alphabet nonsense for me!
Your last comment proves you are less than wise, even today. Your lack of talent at age eight doesn't mean Mozart couldn't compose symphonies at age five.
It's a common misconception that poetry is for adolescents, perhaps left over from the worst extravagances of the Romantics. But of course, if I am right about wisdom, and I'm sure I am - as far as my philosophy of creative ambivalence will allow me to be - then the exact opposite has to be the case, so long as one is wise enough to allow the innocence and spontaneity of childhood survive that long. But isn't that exactly what wisdom is all about?
You have apparently not read or are unable to appreciate the juvenilia of poets like John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, e.e. cummings, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, et al. Are you going to claim that your poems are "better" just because you're older? Would that absurd claim make you "wise"? I doubt that anyone else will agree that you are "right about wisdom" and there have been great poems that are not necessarily wise. Poetry is not a one-trick pony just because John Martin says it is.
Wisdom isn't a one trick pony either. It's a horse of many colours.
I beg your pardon, but did you even read Mike’s Substack post, or did you merely skim through it and then move on to doing what you do best (i.e. leaving a snide remark)? If you had bothered to read this fine article, you would have noticed that Mike does indeed make fun of himself numerous times. The following example made me burst out laughing:
“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!”
This is another great example of Mike’s self-deprecating sense of humor:
“However, I was a perfectionist and poetry can be very tough on perfectionists. I remember becoming incredibly frustrated and angry with myself. Why wasn’t I writing poetry like Shelley and Keats at age fifteen? I destroyed all my poems in a fit of pique.”
I find this and other aspects of Mike’s story to be incredibly relatable. I think it is an inspiring, real-life story that tells how a young poet who was “testing his wings” (to borrow a phrase from Mike) went on to become one of the greatest poets of all time. In fact, I think he had more talent in his little finger as an adolescent than most adult poets have in their entire bodies. I beg your pardon, but have you written anything that remotely comes close to “Infinity” or “Leave Taking”? No worries, Mr. Martin; I haven’t either!
Lastly, I would like to add that I have found Mike to be incredibly kind, intelligent, funny, and generous. He has done so much to help me with my work ever since he first reached out to me this past December, and he has been a tremendous source of encouragement. If something is amiss with one of my poems, he always points out the issue in a kind and considerate way and then offers suggestions as to how I can improve the piece. The results have been phenomenal. He is never overbearing or pushy, and he’s always a real joy to work with. I will always be thankful for all the help and encouragement he has given me. Mike is a real gentleman, and I feel so blessed to have him as a mentor and a friend.
Shannon, thanks for your vote of confidence. Knowing how you love and value poetry, it means a lot.
This is a truly outrageous insult. Michael R. Burch is a true master, in my opinion the greatest English poet since William Wordsworth. His magnificent Ars Poetica is one of the finest poems I've ever read.
I've used Mr. Burch's masterpieces as inspiration for my own work; he's kindly deigned to publish some of them. For example, consider this poem of mine:
A Mother’s Love
Which is more beautiful:
A sunset, or a mother’s love?
A mother comforts her child on Earth,
But a sunset lights only the sky above.
Which is stronger: a grand oak tree,
Or a mother’s love for her little one?
Oaks can be felled by a logger’s axe
But a mother’s love cannot be undone.
Which is sweeter: a sugar cube,
Or a mother’s words of tender care?
Sugar can be digested
But a mother’s words will forever endure.
More beautiful than a glorious sunset,
Stronger than a great oak tree,
Sweeter than a sugar cube...
Who but our mothers could it be?
Mr. Burch also kindly pointed out a minor grammatical error in the following sonnet, my Sonnet LXXII:
The most marvelous poems that were ever written
Were insulted by jealous, unskilled bards.
Why are great poets by such people bitten?
The truth is that it is terribly hard
For a poet who writes not with sweet nectar but plain ink––
Who writes in little more than tedious prose––
To see beautiful verse…it must make them think
About how they cannot write anything as good! So all those
Whose poetry is gorgeous as a sunset,
Brings as many tears to the eye as an onion cut,
Makes audiences weep and applaud––their poems fret
The poetasters…hurt them in their gut…
So they insult and mock the beautiful poems they envy.
That is the truth, it’s plain as day to see.
Were it not for Mr. Burch, I would still be an unpublished poet. Who knows how many masterpieces he's inspired?
Thanks for your vote of confidence, Malcolm.