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THE MUSE

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
{C} 2018

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