Juvenilia

I included the first four poems not because they are period, or because they are even remotely medieval, but because I was fifteen when I wrote them. I want to give encouragement to the beginning poets who might stumble onto my website. It is perfectly normal to write awkward, amateurish verse. We all have to start somewhere. Shakespeare's first work was probably dreadful, but we never get to see his aborted efforts, his rough drafts, the scribblings that he half completed and then threw with disgust into the fire. Take a good look at my teenage poetry. Allow yourself to shudder. Then smile. Your own work is much better than my juvenilia, isn't it?

After The Last Battle (August 1985)

(this was my very first poem)

Silently the dawn approaches.
A soldier wakes; and watching the light,
waiting for the fight,
He knows he will die.
He fights a futile war
beside the omnipresent brothers, blood and gore.
And after the fruitless fight is done
and the field is full of soulless shells
Grim Death reaps the crop of hell
and after the last battle
when a restless, hostile armistice is declared
not one will be left who cared.

Carol Of The Fields (February 1986)

Sing for the sun, who gives you life;
sing with your voice, and play.
Sing in the evening to the mysterious moon,
her light giving power to the magic rune -
Sing to the brook as she babbles along
Her exuberant waters, to them raise your song,
the harvest in autumn, giving life and plenty,
Sing anthems to bounty that feeds the many.
To life, to love, joy's liberty:
A hymn of praise. Oh let it be!
And when this is sung, give praise to the fields -
to the knowledge of beauty and the joy that it yields.

Valentine Poem (February 1986)

One could say that this was my version of "Love's Philosophy."

Spring or winter, night or day -
It matters not to me.
For in every time, in any way
With you I want to be.
Time is senseless, and so I
Propose to you this:
Remember me, and time will fly
As swiftly as a kiss.

To Hans (March 1986)

Silver hoarfrost cloaks the ground
and mists of shadow fill the air
Barren trees brush the sky
and unseen spirits silent stare

Now is when I dream of you
I recall the fallen dew
in meadows where we ran -
I feel your eyes, I hear unspoken cries
and dream of when our lives began

The mist it sighs, the forest moans
crying for the wind has blown -
My lifted face sees stars above;
turning back I dream of love.

There. Don't you feel more confident about your own talent? Surely your poetry is better than MY early work! :)