The Muse

by John Lars Zwerenz


I shall leave the city, the bustling town.
I shall walk to the outskirts of the wild plains,
And drink from heaven mystic rains,
Lying in the reeds, drunk upon the down.

My shoes are worn, of coats I have one.
I am a martyr of the furrows and the fields at play.
I live for adventure and the brilliant, gilded, golden day,
Come the weeping moon, or the soporific, gleaming sun.

I have in my pocket a notebook I keep.
I wield it come the dawn, along with my flask.
I compose florid verse, a vagabond’s task,
Beneath the blue sky, where the angels sleep.

I drink my wine after rhyme and prose,
In the flowery cradle of a garden-close.
I am struck by visions beside the lane,
On warm, autumn nights, at one with the rain.

I take my dreams for what they are:
The flow of ethereal, lavender seas,
Which rise to every astonishing star,
Swallowing their ecstasies.

I hallucinate when rainbows pass.
I am a symbolist, a saint.
My pages are my canvass.
My stanzas are my paint.

O, muse, I have been faithful to you! -
On trains, on foot, in poverty,
I have brought down the sky and raised the sea!
I have resurrected gold to its rightful hue!

As an alchemist I have perceived the wondrous blending
Of blue and red gems in unions never-ending.
I am the world’s greatest scholar:
All mysteries are known to me.
The forest is my exquisite parlor;
The firmament: Infinity!
Every brook is romantic; all my kisses are of fire.
My lover’s name is Mary; there is music in the marvelous sun!
To paradise I aspire,
To the bliss of everyone!

John Lars Zwerenz