Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Monday, October 29, 2012
THE MEADOW
The Meadow
After gleaming candles in the dining room
We shall wander beyond the summerhouse, into the field
And inhale the wines as we pass beneath the boughs.
We shall rove in the potions that they yield
On the sunny, stone path, devoid of gloom.
And as long as the moonlight graciously allows
Our eyes to see the blooms in the reedswww.visionarywanderings.com
We shall hold each other's hand as the tide recedes
In the ocean by the cloister, where a rapturous melody
Shall abide in your gazes, lit by the stars
Which will render its majestic rhapsody
With cello and guitars.
And when the diamond hued night
Transforms the bower into an elysian place
I shall kiss your fair, angelic face
In the bourbon of the glittering, nocturnal light,
And your hair will turn silver, and your look, all of grace
Shall pierce me like a thousand pearls,
On the meadow by the sea
Where the scarlet current swirls,
In our souls and in our sighs,
In the garden of your eyes,
In the vespers of our ecstasy.
We shall wander beyond the summerhouse, into the field
And inhale the wines as we pass beneath the boughs.
We shall rove in the potions that they yield
On the sunny, stone path, devoid of gloom.
And as long as the moonlight graciously allows
Our eyes to see the blooms in the reedswww.visionarywanderings.com
We shall hold each other's hand as the tide recedes
In the ocean by the cloister, where a rapturous melody
Shall abide in your gazes, lit by the stars
Which will render its majestic rhapsody
With cello and guitars.
And when the diamond hued night
Transforms the bower into an elysian place
I shall kiss your fair, angelic face
In the bourbon of the glittering, nocturnal light,
And your hair will turn silver, and your look, all of grace
Shall pierce me like a thousand pearls,
On the meadow by the sea
Where the scarlet current swirls,
In our souls and in our sighs,
In the garden of your eyes,
In the vespers of our ecstasy.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
A GYPSY'S LIFE
A gypsy am I as I rove on the downy dale.
Aside from the taverns the fields are my only vale.
I drink from my carafe a fairy-fermented brew,
And I dream of fair love, beneath a radiant sky of blue.
I carry within my sailor's coat a book of romantic rhyme.
I wield it when I may and write as I did of old:
Of a sable-haired girl whose gaze is raven-gold.
Her dress is white and long, and her hair is of an elysian clime.
I am struck by visions beside the lane,
On starry October nights, laved by the autumn rain,
And I sleep beneath the lindens musing on her kiss.
I have searched for her love in ethereal bliss.
I have seen her face in dreams, wandering on the shore,
And the specter of her beauty, passing on the moor.www.visionarywanderings.com
Aside from the taverns the fields are my only vale.
I drink from my carafe a fairy-fermented brew,
And I dream of fair love, beneath a radiant sky of blue.
I carry within my sailor's coat a book of romantic rhyme.
I wield it when I may and write as I did of old:
Of a sable-haired girl whose gaze is raven-gold.
Her dress is white and long, and her hair is of an elysian clime.
I am struck by visions beside the lane,
On starry October nights, laved by the autumn rain,
And I sleep beneath the lindens musing on her kiss.
I have searched for her love in ethereal bliss.
I have seen her face in dreams, wandering on the shore,
And the specter of her beauty, passing on the moor.www.visionarywanderings.com
Friday, October 19, 2012
Visionary Wanderings
Visionary Wanderings
John Lars Zwerenz has created a distinct persona and voice in this new collection of his poetry entitled Visionary Wanderings. This persona is somewhat of a vagabond and a pirate. But his love for the beautiful and the true tells readers that this persona is a god himself, wandering incognito for those earthly visions that would engender the lyrical romantic mode.
With this, Zwerenz wanders far and wide and comes up with diverse and seemingly unnumbered beauty. These are poems that speak to the feeling of infinity in men – like Keats’ Grecian urn. What the poet achieves is another pinnacle that few will dare strive for in today’s literary climate. Zwerenz has gambled like the greatest of his peers from the past, and he has won. The cornucopia of natural imagery defined by its relation to godhood and its virtues, to the wrought beauty of ornaments standing on their places in church and palace, can be likened to the labor and results of Rembrandt.
This, therefore, is the focal trope of this poetry. It is an attempt, and a very successful one, of commuting through media and standards to fuse the pictorial beauty of great paintings with a poetic form suitable for them. These poems are word visions, the poet looking far and wide to pick out the best pieces that the human eye has been privileged to view.
Alchemy
I wove my verses in a cluster of purple stars,
While dreaming on the meadow in the tender, April rain.
A mendicant, I wandered to the outskirts of the plain,
And I slept in the glow of a campfire's bars.
I awoke to the vast, blond horizon,
To dahlias, daisies, roses, to aromatic fleur-de-lis;
In my black sailor's coat I arose to symphonies.
And at night I roved the Acheron.
I swam through a gulf of evergreen billows;
I ascended from the brine to the sight of splendid willows.
All prosaic things became sanctified.
Rubies and rings I presented to the queen,
In jeweled, velvet boxes, neatly tied.
And in alcoves near the river I witnessed the unseen.
While dreaming on the meadow in the tender, April rain.
A mendicant, I wandered to the outskirts of the plain,
And I slept in the glow of a campfire's bars.
I awoke to the vast, blond horizon,
To dahlias, daisies, roses, to aromatic fleur-de-lis;
In my black sailor's coat I arose to symphonies.
And at night I roved the Acheron.
I swam through a gulf of evergreen billows;
I ascended from the brine to the sight of splendid willows.
All prosaic things became sanctified.
Rubies and rings I presented to the queen,
In jeweled, velvet boxes, neatly tied.
And in alcoves near the river I witnessed the unseen.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
A SUMMER'S DAY
As I wandered through a garden, its petals budding folds,
A wreath of varied blooms I laid upon my chest.
I scuffled through those beauties to find a tranquil rest,
In a bed of dappled daisies, amid bright marigolds.
A melancholic blue jay lingered in the lights
Which sifted through the leafy heights,
At the end of a playful summer's day.
A lady with a parted mane passed along the way.
I took out my guitar and plucked a nylon string.
She sat in the sun, upon a cloistered seat.
Our spirits were married, wing with wing.
"I am of a royal house," she said in a tone so sweet.
Her name was of rapture, of a redolent stream.
We walked to a sunny nook, and embraced as in a dream.
A wreath of varied blooms I laid upon my chest.
I scuffled through those beauties to find a tranquil rest,
In a bed of dappled daisies, amid bright marigolds.
A melancholic blue jay lingered in the lights
Which sifted through the leafy heights,
At the end of a playful summer's day.
A lady with a parted mane passed along the way.
I took out my guitar and plucked a nylon string.
She sat in the sun, upon a cloistered seat.
Our spirits were married, wing with wing.
"I am of a royal house," she said in a tone so sweet.
Her name was of rapture, of a redolent stream.
We walked to a sunny nook, and embraced as in a dream.
Monday, October 1, 2012
The Composer
The silver rain falls softly down
Upon the sleepy, quaint, old town;
The blue larks stray
Over the chapel of gray
To the somnolent sea,
So gracefully.
A composer weeps,
With a sole, flickering candle,
And a white carafe of wine,
Upon his grand piano.
As the rustic village sleeps,
Beneath the glittering, adamantine,
Descending glow
Of the lamenting moon,
He weaves his assonant lyrics,
No longer concerned with the logistics.
And in his anhedonia
There can be no boon
As the charwoman walks in,
His melancholia
Tempts him to leave for the colloquial din
Of the corner saloon.
And he wonders why,
With a glass of rye,
His heart is filled with such a sorrowful strain-
Welcome, my brother, poor composer,
To the salvific treasure
Of the poet's pain.
Upon the sleepy, quaint, old town;
The blue larks stray
Over the chapel of gray
To the somnolent sea,
So gracefully.
A composer weeps,
With a sole, flickering candle,
And a white carafe of wine,
Upon his grand piano.
As the rustic village sleeps,
Beneath the glittering, adamantine,
Descending glow
Of the lamenting moon,
He weaves his assonant lyrics,
No longer concerned with the logistics.
And in his anhedonia
There can be no boon
As the charwoman walks in,
His melancholia
Tempts him to leave for the colloquial din
Of the corner saloon.
And he wonders why,
With a glass of rye,
His heart is filled with such a sorrowful strain-
Welcome, my brother, poor composer,
To the salvific treasure
Of the poet's pain.
Twilight By The Shore
Beyond the statuesque Tudor's stained glass windows,
On a path in the wood, by the waves of the sallow shore,
My lady took my hand, as we paced upon the sandy floor.
(The soft, September canopy blessed us in the garden-close.)
In her eyes I could see the burgundies of the shade,
Through watery sighs, from the redolent glade.
Her white, flowing dress was doused with dew,
Caressed by breezes, of a china blue.
We entered the chateau, in the hour of twilight,
To find peace in that abode, in the haze of the nascent night.
We climbed a round stair, and found a quaint, colonial air.
Vases filled with blooms graced mahogany tables.
My lover's long hair was radiant in its sables.
(I stole one rose for her, as precious as it was fair.)
On a path in the wood, by the waves of the sallow shore,
My lady took my hand, as we paced upon the sandy floor.
(The soft, September canopy blessed us in the garden-close.)
In her eyes I could see the burgundies of the shade,
Through watery sighs, from the redolent glade.
Her white, flowing dress was doused with dew,
Caressed by breezes, of a china blue.
We entered the chateau, in the hour of twilight,
To find peace in that abode, in the haze of the nascent night.
We climbed a round stair, and found a quaint, colonial air.
Vases filled with blooms graced mahogany tables.
My lover's long hair was radiant in its sables.
(I stole one rose for her, as precious as it was fair.)
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