Mitch Gundrum
is a budding poet living in the Madison area. His work seeks to preserve classic meter, structure and rhyme scheme while implementing modern themes and dialect in an attempt bring organization and reason to his swirling, chaotic perspective.

The Question

A question with an answer that is not so easily found:
“How long will you love me; how long will your heart be bound
Unto mine by strings of passion that may never break nor bend?”
What say you, may she ask, “When is it that your love will end?”?

The answer, I concede, first seemed impossible to reach,
N’er to be encompassed by the means of pen or speech.
Since love is immaterial - not a token one can lend -
I concluded hence, with ignorance, that love can never end.

Time found my plea erroneous - Hark! - what brought forth my mistake,
Were trails of love that found my heart and trials that made it break.
And where would be the difference ‘twixt a soul mate and a friend,
If it’s not the length of time with which their love comes to an end?

For a lifetime and an hour, o’er this question did I pine,
‘Til at long last, without repast, I feel I might define,
If not the temporal trinkets that the human heart defend,
Then at least the circumstances by which my love will end:

When that earth our feet both fall upon and the sky above our hair,
Reverse so that, whilst underground, I tread upon the air,
And while I walk I conversate with Eagle, Dove, and Wren:
Our final kiss, for dearest, this, is when my love will end.

When the brittle flakes of ice that fall upon my brow and breast,
Burn hotter than the love that sears the soul within my chest.
When the Heav’nly orb spits rays of frost and flames compose the Thames:
But reminisce, for darling, this is when my love will end.

When my soul, itself a half, finds better refuge than your heart,
And mine might still suffice with such an insufficient part,
Then my lips will speak the words penned by this solemn repetend.
Though naught, I pray, this is the day - Lo! - when my love will end.

When heaven and her occupants, they care for us no more,
And life and love are washed away like sands upon the shore.
When the soul-less, heart-less demons love you more than I do, then
The earth will quake, as God forsake, and then my love will end.

And when the end of love means you are all I’ll ever need,
And you and I will conquer death, and live eternally,
And love like there is nothing else, nor has there ever been,
Then the first time that I saw you - that is when my love did end.

A Simple Correspondence

To Life,
Why does it always seem
You make man crutch on hopes and dreams?
And make him witness pain and hate?
Eternal Peace? You make him wait.
You let him love, make no mistake
But soon enough, his heart will break.
He’ll work hard – he’s the New World’s pawn –
For things he can’t take when he’s gone.
His friends will leave before he does
And he will suffer, just because.
Sometimes he’ll lose, sometimes he’ll gain
But really, it is all in vain.
But yet, one thing remains unknown;
It seems your fate controls my own,
So: When he takes his final breath,
Why do you leave?

Yours Truly,

To Death,
It seems that you have fared
To ask what man has never dared:
Why do I take away sweet Death
And burden man by giving breath?
Why do I make man toil so?
Make him be born, and make him grow?
And why then, when he nears the end,
Do I pass him to you, my friend?
~I make man suffer while he lives,
So he may earn the gift you give.
For until he knows how to cry,
His soul is hard; he will not Die.
Alas, the reason I incline
To let man on earth for a time:
May he find love that trumps all strife
And that is all.

Yours Truly,