Poetry Fireside Chat: Forget the Culture Wars!
Timeless Poetry Series
The beautiful thing about our modern times is that despite all the craziness, the bad guys no longer fully control the narrative. Five media companies controlling the narrative is no longer a thing. There is the possibility for a rebirth of culture, ideas and originality.
While many readers and listeners have been understandably rattled or disturbed by the nature of our own modern culture wars, with many decrying the dearth of genuine beauty and art, many have arguably become too absorbed in the mainstream “culture wars” to notice the many little sprouts of originality and promise making their way out of the ash and mud.
Join us for a poetry fireside chat where we explore some new timeless works of poetry and discuss the future of art and culture.
I'm always honored when David and Adam read and discuss one of my poems. I think Adam had a good interpretation of the poem. While the poem was written with abused women in mind, one has to be something of a daredevil to enter into relationships that are so fraught with past darkness. It can be incredibly difficult for girls who have been abused to enter into so-called "normal" relationships as women. There can be a tightwire act on both parts, as both partners try to navigate the tricky footing. One woman I dated briefly became engaged to a friend of mine, then committed suicide before the wedding. I had such worst-case scenarios in mind with stanzas like:
There were cannon shots’ soirees,
hearts barricaded, wise . . .
and then . . . annihilation.
And the final stanza:
Where once you scraped your knees;
love later bruised your thighs.
Death numbs all, our sedation.
The refrain "Daredevil, dry your eyes" can be considered to be saying, "You were a daredevil, but you are beyond suffering now, so there's no need for tears." But it can also be considered an admonition to the other Daredevil, who is still living, to be consoled by the fact that her suffering is over.
Here is the full poem...
Daredevil
by Michael R. Burch
There are days that I believe
(and nights that I deny)
love is not mutilation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There are tightropes leaps bereave—
taut wires strumming high
brief songs, infatuations.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were cannon shots’ soirees,
hearts barricaded, wise . . .
and then . . . annihilation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were nights our hearts conceived
untruths reborn as sighs.
To dream was our consolation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were acrobatic leaves
that tumbled down to lie
at our feet, bright trepidations.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were hearts carved into trees—
tall stakes where you and I
left childhood’s salt libations . . .
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
Where once you scraped your knees;
love later bruised your thighs.
Death numbs all, our sedation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.