Selected Poetry
By Jessica B. Burstrem
It's finally here! As requested by several of my guests, I have picked out what I think is my best poetry and presented it, in approximate reverse chronological order, for your keen perusal here. There are a lot more poems that I’d like to add – I’ve probably written a couple hundred – but these are all that I have time to post right now. (A few more can be found at Poetry.com.)
Last Updated: 12/5/04, 11:40 a.m. EST
As I have gotten a little older I have found myself feeling less willing to share my truly personal creations openly. Here, then are a few of my lighthearted poems from 2003 to hold you over until I post more from my college years... and I do, of course, still harbor the hope of, I believe, all writers, closet and professional, that everything that I have ever done and written in my entire life will be painstakingly investigated and compiled for the study of generations to come. ;)
"Smell" composed Saturday, December 4, 2004
Based on a phrase from an earlier poem (see "Home," below) that cycled in my mind for a month, this poem was written on Monday, December 1, 2003:
"Geese"
moss-green clay-mud-brown poop
must be from the bloody earthworms in the grass
much bigger than in the sky when on the ground
and their calls sound sharp and flat up close
Written Wednesday, November 5, 2003:
"The Cycle of Time"
I believe that new and insightful things
can still be revealed in rhyme
I believe that inequity still persists
between the genders and the classes
I believe that all the isms still exist
I believe that my body is just mine
I know that these statements mark me
as somewhat older than my time
sentence me to be on the outside
when being on the outside is out of style
**But**
Remember that before this time, your time
beliefs like mine were the popular mode
Your time could end today
and then
My time could begin tomorrow
Written Tuesday, October 28, 2003:
"Home"
The geese all have their heads in the grass
Like ducks in water
Hunting
But one, who watches us walking by
Must be the sentry
The chipmunk, so small
The hummingbird of mammalia perhaps
Yet makes so much noise
Running over the wet leaves
This time of year must be dangerous
For him
And I
Crunching the helicopter-seeds from the trees
Under my shoes
As I evade the
Grass-green-clay-mud-brown smears
Of the diluted goose poop
Feel that the air is somehow better up here
Must contain somehow within it
The evaporated elixir of life
The following poem I wrote near the end of 1997, while I was a senior in high school. The mythological references are pretty thick, so I have included an explanation written in early 1999 after the poem.
Dionysus & Demeter
It tears me up to see you cry
Like Dionysus I shall die
Until your poor heart heals again
my broken body will not mend
Crumpled like a withered vine
I hide my soul from the cruel outside
and the chill your grief brings upon the Earth
like Demeter who lost one to whom she gave birth
But when your face alights with a smile once more
my soul shall return up through Death’s gate of horn
Like Persephone then we will be happy and free
though stained by the tears you shed in your misery
OK, here's the explanation:
According to Edith Hamilton, in my opinion the best mythology expert that one can find, Dionysus, Demeter, and Persephone are the only Greek gods who ever truly experience deep emotional pain, so the Greeks really identify with them.
Dionysus is the god of wine. It is believed that his soul resides within the grapevine (his body). Every winter, when the pruned vines wither and appear to die, Dionysus is believed to undergo death, his unhappy soul trapped within the broken, crippled body that is his only protection from the elements.
Demeter, the goddess of corn, lost her beautiful young daughter Persephone when she was abducted by the lord of the underworld and taken down to the land of the dead. Called, "The Rape of Persephone," it resulted in the girl's death. Demeter, in endless mourning, let the world fall into a harsh eternal winter, and nothing would grow. It was not until Zeus sent his messenger down to his brother in Hades to order that the girl be released that spring had a chance again. Persephone's "light step upon the dry, brown hillside was enough to make it fresh and blooming," Hamilton writes in Mythology. Reunited, Demeter and her daughter are very happy – but their happiness is limited, as Persephone still has to return to the underworld six months out of the year. When she is dead, that is winter. When she returns, that is spring.
Finally, there are two gates out of the underworld: an ivory one through which pass false dreams, and one of horn for the true ones.
The next poem was the last one that I wrote in 1996, while I was in the eleventh grade. I think I had a crush on this poor guy for a couple of years during high school. He happened to have blue eyes, and although I’ve always preferred brown, they’ve never inspired me to poetry the way that blue eyes do.
Attracted
The first thing that
Attracted
me to you
was how
you made me laugh
that day,
but once I was
Attracted
to you
there was one thing
that blew me
away:
Like the unpolluted ocean
in a perfect dream
which has you
Attracted
to me,
your eyes are clear
and bright
and blue
and intense
like the fire
that cannot be quenched
by the clear, bright, and very blue sea.
This poem is about the same guy, written earlier that year. Published Dec. 25, 1996, in “Word Up,” the youth section of The Flint Journal, for which I wrote for about three years in high school. A total of 65 of my poems were published in “Word Up,” along with a good number of articles.
A Telephone Call
um
hi
I’m sorry
but
I have something
to tell you
I’m going to regret this
I regret it already
You like her don’t you
You don’t have to answer that
I already know
I’m sure someone has told you
so you must know why I’m calling
I just can’t bear to say it myself
oh
What do I say now
I didn’t plan this part
I’m sorry
I have to go
um
bye
And one more from the first half of my junior year. Published Oct. 2, 1996, in “Word Up,” in the June 1997 issue of The Trumpeter, the newsletter of St. Christopher’s Episcopal Church, and in the 1997 American Poetry Annual by the Amherst Poetry Society.
Cello
The tail of a horse
Slides over metal wound around,
Spinning a tale of notes--
Of universal sounds.
The horse tail is quite crooked,
And its hair lies not quite flat;
The notes are a bit smeary--
But it's not as bad as all that.
For to the girl it sounds lovely,
As it swells
and dips
and curls,
And the wind and the breeze
That disturb all the trees
Stop to hear the fine sounds that are made by this girl,
Whose horse tail makes universal sounds.
The summer of 1996 was a time when much of the rhythm of my poetry was inspired by music. First, I wrote “Clouds,” which fits the tune of “The Addams Family.” Then came “Rainbows in the Oil,” composed on an airplane to a variation of the song that starts with this line: “Sunshine in the morning makes me happy….” This trend continued with the “Somewhere over the Rainbow” series many months later. Published Sept. 25, 1996, in “Word Up.”
Clouds
I looked out of my window,
Away up into the sky;
There was a horse head up there,
And it was flying by.
And then I saw an airplane,
The old Wright brothers' airplane;
I saw a needle up there,
And it was flying by.
But when I looked away,
My airplane went away;
It had become a mushroom,
And it was flying by.
And now my horse is gone,
Dissolved before the sun;
My mushroom cloud is missing,
But it went flying by.
Published Jan. 18, 1996, in “Word Up.”
Rainbows in the Oil
Sunshine,
Making rainbows in the oil;
Green grass,
Growing in the cracks of the concrete jungle;
Fresh bread,
Masking smells of smoke and gasoline--
Oh yes,
A nice day in the city.
Oh yes,
A nice day in my home.
Where are the blue lakes that my Lord gave me?
Where are my streams and bubbling springs?
How can I inherit the water to sustain me
If He hasn't any left to give?
Sunshine,
Drying puddles of acid
Flowing down the sides of the streets;
Green grass,
Killed by man and woman
Because they've run out of trees;
Fresh bread,
Kept from hungry children
Who need it more than me--
Oh yes,
The world, it keeps on turning,
Dirty as it may be.
Where are the meadows for me to roll in?
Where are my flowers and trees?
How can I inherit the wonders to please me
If He hasn't any left to give?
Please,
Find another way for Him to give.
Actually composed after “Clouds” and before “Rainbows in the Oil,” this poem was inspired by the work of another high school girl that I read in “Word Up.” Published Jan. 25, 1996, in “Word Up.”
Thoughts
My job is
To write down other people's thoughts--
And sometimes a few of my own--
But then just now I read your poem.
Well as I began it I noticed that you
Can write down my own thoughts rather well too.
But as I read on, the thoughts took a turn:
Why they were still yours!
And so now I find that I have to thank you
For showing to me the light.
What I trip I was on!
Writing other folks' thoughts--
What nonsense, what conceited wrong.
And how could I think
You would write about me
When you have such thoughts of your own?!
So I'm sorry, my dear, and grateful as well
To my friend whom I never have met.
These are my own thoughts I scratch out right now,
For who else would sink so low to think so?
And now, selections from the tenth grade, when inspiration was prolific and inclination complied…
My next selection, called “The Poem,” is a poem that I wrote about another poem [hence, the title :)]. The poem that it refers to is “Friday Afternoon,” the third one from the bottom of this page. Published July 3, 1996, in “Word Up.”
The Poem
A miserable Friday,
Just before the bell,
Just before the year would end--
Just when, I cannot tell.
I wrote a little poem,
It didn't even rhyme,
It took not many seconds;
I do it all the time.
But this poem, it was different,
It was more special, somehow.
The people, they all liked it--
But I just couldn't take my bow.
Of all the works that I have done
And all the time I've spent,
Should some poem that meant nothing
Have gone higher than they went?
Published July 3, 1996, in “Word Up.”
Your Beautiful Eyes
Confusing,
You're so confusing.
You say you're not, but
When I see your face fall--
Well you say nothing is wrong.
Beautiful eyes,
Long eyelashes.
Beautiful smile--
Too bad you don't use it more often.
Your laughter reminds me of someone
Beautiful.
So sad, so depressed.
Why can't you let go with me?
You are like a child,
A little boy
Lost in a fog.
I am your buoy,
Your lighthouse,
Your afternoon, bringing diffusion.
Follow me, let me take your hand.
I am your sunshine,
For you are my solar system,
And I am lost in your
Beautiful
Eyes.
Published May 8, 1996, in “Word Up.”
The Letter I Couldn't Send
you have a secret admirer did you know that?
i am in one of your classes do you know which one?
ask out the girl that you like maybe it's me
i would say yes
can you guess?
Published Apr. 24, 1996, in “Word Up.”
Bloody Mary I
Hear the story,
Laugh and scorn it,
Go in the room,
Turn out the lights,
Look at your eyes,
Round and so wide,
In the mirror
Now close the door,
"Bloody Mary,"
Is number one,
"Bloody Mary,"
Is number two,
Now speak quickly,
"Bloody Mary,"
And turn them on--
Quickly, the lights!
Don't be slow now,
Or she will catch
You in her arms,
Pull you into
The gray mirror,
And there you will
Stay forever.
Open the door
After five minutes,
The lights are off,
Your friend is gone,
The window closed,
Blood on the floor:
It is too late
For your friend now.
Stories are true.
Published Apr. 24, 1996, in “Word Up.”
Bloody Mary II
You've heard the legend
And laughed and scorned it
And swore you'd do it--
But can you really?
Are you able to
Turn off all the lights
And close tight the door
And say all the words--
Or are you afraid?
Published Apr. 10, 1996, in “Word Up.”
Black and Blue
One too many tears
I have to wipe away;
One too many fears
Become reality each day.
Why do you feel the need
To treat me this way?
Well, don't worry, my dear,
I am going to stay.
No matter what you say
Or how still you make me lay,
Tomorrow and today,
I'm by your side, all the way.
No matter what you do,
I'll always be true--
Always and forever,
And only to you.
Published Mar. 13, 1996, in “Word Up.”
Supplication
Oh dear Lord,
What will become of me?
I'm scared
Of what will become of me.
All alone,
Locked up and so afraid,
I'm scared--
What will become of me today?
Oh dear Lord,
What is your fate for me?
What is in your plans--
And may I them please see?
This cold house,
All under lock and key,
Makes me scared
Of what will become of me.
Oh dear Lord,
Will you be there for me?
Walk by my side,
Oh dear Lord, care for me.
And when I pray,
Will you respond to me?
Because, my dear Lord,
I'm just afraid of me.
Published Feb. 14, 1996, in “Word Up.”
Screen Saver
Blue and Purple--
Bright,
Like night,
Like glowing
In light
Of the Moon.
Flying, Soaring,
Higher, Higher,
Growing smaller
Trees and Sea.
Sudden brightness
Brings me back here--
Back here in this
Cold Blue Room.
I don't like
the speed,
the blue,
the white:
Too bright;
Stay soft
For me...
Doesn't listen,
Has no brain
For me, for me--
Who will I talk to?
All alone--
A Cold Blue Room--
The Box is Whirring,
Purring, Purring,
Coming closer--
Now it's yellow,
In this blue
white purple
Room.
Published Dec. 20, 1995, in “Word Up.”
Old
Oh me, oh my, oh pumpkin pie,
I am so very old
That I remember when I was young
The grass was gray and the sky was gold.
I don't think I ever cried
And I don't think that anyone died
And I know no one said goodbye
So very long ago.
So then why now does grass grow green
And the sky look gray instead?
I think that something must've happened
To change what was saved in my head!
The next poem was written in the summer of 1995, just before I started tenth grade.
The Whirlpool of My Mind
Sometimes I'm not me
I write things, say things
That I wouldn't say
And I look at them later
And it's not by me
It's by a stranger
But maybe I am the stranger
And the stranger is me
I don't know who I am
I can't remember
It all keeps getting stranger
You can tell me what happened
You can show me pictures
But I won't remember
I'll remember what you tell me
You could take advantage of me
I would never know
If you changed my memories
That I don't have
Don't remember
But if I don't remember
Maybe it didn't happen
You can tell me it did
But if I can't remember
How do I know
You aren't just telling me?
I wasn't there
I didn't see, hear
I don't remember
How do I know?
A Kaleidoscope
So confused
I don't exist
My thoughts run shorter
The music gets louder
Can't think, remember
What did I write?
Written in an Honors Geometry class during the last week of my freshman year of high school, this poem has garnered more accolades than any of the others--and for a long time that really bothered me, as I felt that I had not put as much work into it as I did into some later pieces. (See “The Poem,” above.) Just recently, however, it occurred to me that no amount of time and effort can ever compare to one moment of divine inspiration. Now I can finally appreciate the value of this poem. Published in Sept. 1995 in Inspirations and in Perspectives, both by the Iliad Press.
Friday Afternoon
The room is still,
The silence feels heavy; I want to scream.
The air vent buzzes,
A student turns a page
With great care to keep the stifling peace.
I turn around and look out the window.
Yesterday the tree was bare,
But today--heavy with flowers
Big and White.
Someone whispers to their neighbor.
My pencil scratches on my paper
Like a weak old dog
At the door of an empty house.
No one makes any noise
So I drop my pencil on the floor.
A boy looks up across the room.
I stare back
And scuff my worn brown sandals on the floor.
Then I get my pencil
With a dramatic swish.
And I sigh.
And the bell rings.
And from the eighth grade…
through my eyes
the trees make a
canopy
over my head
but they do not
block the sun
it shines
white
in the sky
but
it doesn't hurt
my eyes
and
the trees
green
white
at the same
time
and
the breeze
always
at my face
and
my hair
brushed
off my neck
and
the ground
covered
with needles
pine
so my step
soft
but the ground
white
and i
am happy
because the sun
it shines
white
in the sky
but
it doesn't hurt
my eyes
Finally, the following is the first poem of mine that was ever published. I was in the sixth grade, and Christmas break was fast approaching. For some time my mom had been encouraging me to enter a poetry contest that she had seen advertised, so one day when I came home from school and was immediately struck with the idea for this piece, I walked right into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and put it down on paper. I was finished in minutes….
Mystery Man
Once, I knew a soldier.
So proudly did he stand.
His hair and beard were white with age,
but MY his clothes were grand!
He wore a sword in his belt.
His boots were oh-so-shiny.
Though he may sound forbidding,
his heart is more than tiny.
He'll do anything to keep you safe.
He's risked his life before.
It was just to help a friend!
He's unselfish to the core.
His cheeks and nose are rosy.
His moustache and eyebrows, black.
His skin is peach and his eyes are blue.
No color does he lack.
My last clue to you
is that he sits upon a shelf.
And just in case you're wondering,
it's the Nutcracker himself!
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© 1997 Jessica B. Burstrem