Jessamyn's Song by Michael R. Burch

“Jessamyn’s Song” is an early poem of mine inspired by Claude Monet’s oil painting “The Walk, Woman with a Parasol,” which I first saw around age 14 and interpreted as a walk in a meadow or heather.

“Jessamyn’s Song” was inspired by Claude Monet’s oil painting “The Walk, Woman with a Parasol,” which I first saw around age 14 and 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 age 16, my first long poem, although I was not happy with the poem, overall. I have touched it up here and there over the last half century, but it remains substantially the same as the original poem. 

Jessamyn's Song (circa age 14-16)

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 do not 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 is the pulse in your veins, 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 shameless 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. 

Now 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

while bright fountains splash in youthful ruin

against the strange 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.

Now 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!”

66

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.

Keywords/Tags: Jessamyn's Song, early poem, juvenilia, time, sun, earth, life, meadows, grass, heather