HOW I BURNED HIM DOWN

And then some days, those other poems ...

HOW I BURNED HIM DOWN

I never meant to start the fire.
It was
a small experiment.
Alone, we were the only two.
He was young and darkling.

I hadn’t come to feed the geese.
I sat
a hundred yards away
with paper, pen, beside the lake.
I couldn’t write a line.

Invisible in dusky shade,
I arced
my heat into his hand.
He felt it, and his fingers moved.
Slow at first, then faster.

I never once expected smoke.
The flame
was never my intent.
He seared the page; he couldn’t stop;
I watched and burned him down.

Karen

It seems that the dramatic situation is too veiled still. 

It seems that the persona wrote a poem to a boy and flamed passion within him. 

Maybe it's the use of negatives to describe what doesn't occur that is tripping me.  What about positive descriptions after stanza one?

fun stuff.

Hmm.  An interpretation I hadn't considered.  Now I'm anxious to hear from the other poets!

I am assuming that the indefinite "him" has written the poem for you. Obviously he has inspired a poem that was giving you difficulty. The poem was a sudden inspiration and quickly written.

You have chosen a form and told your story consistently within that form. Looks good.

I need help, Karen.  Can't quite put a finger on "him"
My best guess is your "muse"... if that is correct then I like the poem but it is only a guess.  The poem is rather negative... dramatic... powerful at the end...
Dewell

Everything is vague though, so I'm guessing.  I think that's why we are guessing here and yon.  I'm wondering why it must be vague?  Does it help the writer?  Is it to the surprise of the writer that such fire comes from his words, his passion?  If the writer cannot write, then the fire comes from elsewhere.  Muse?  Another?  Not sure.  Helpful to the reader if we knew who  HIM is.  Interesting challenge for me.

I apologize for taxing you with a poem that was a playground for me.  It spang from a quote a friend posted.  The somewhat cleaned-up version:

"I'm still a little irritated I can't fly or set things on fire with my mind."

My first thought: Oh, but maybe I can ...

On a literal/supernatural level, the poem was my translating that jazzed-up, red-blood-and-bees feeling of being able to do anything.  The metaphorical level was an experience I had at a Writers' Crawl.  We were writing freeflow, then reading our words aloud.  No comments, no critiques.  My young writing friend Fred was hamstrung, unable to get past the possibility that he would write nothing but dreck, and we would judge him for it.  My thought: What if I could galvanize his hand, causing him to write until his real stories came out?  What if I could set him on fire?

Todd hit the nail on the head.  Fun stuff.