John Harper

by Adam Penna

I.  The Muse’s Muse

I am beautiful, sighing my whispered line to him—
I am here—
and the color of roses
kept alive his heart

I, too, am amid.
The violet waves
vibrant in me, so in feelings
I go all the way up up

touching my fingertips to the very top
so eagerly let me see what’s there;
I can almost touch one’s meaning—
and drop down in ecstasy—

I touch him, I know—
I keep it as a memory
in the night for the morning its slip
of light parting me upon

his sentence; he’s waking along
the horizon I am in
where he sees me an angel of poetry;
I look windward where he holds me

wrapped around the earth
his thighs so thoroughly rich; he
writes to my being of this world love poetry;
dreams of the treasured closeness of my body to his, at last

arisen, and what he calls softly an old soul
I cannot backtrack into night;
I do not know; I do not know;
he’s the bare light at the other

end to mine, everyday now—
I know my feet but do not know where
they rise—
He wants me where

in the dawn
I completely burn in him
and he forever returns
to see me again—

Maybe the last time destiny
looked like this, it began to snow stars
in scarlet-blue marbled space—
We began as stars, resting side by side—

You have your cowboy hat
and I my nose ring—
do not wait for the day ahead—
O come running to me—

II.  Sunrise Muse

I promise to love you as I do,
as I wear your sunrise around my eyes—as I feel
deeply the moments’ fire unfolding,
when I dissolve, yet not withdraw, into you;
through dreams’ dawns I shall watch
fat salmon-colored clouds veiling low,
touching open this genuine pen—to you, I promise
right from the top of my head until
forever finds us
one in the twin heart,
I will cherish you
laughing lively up our golden earth,
so real beyond name—I promise
right to the beginning of the infrequent
edge of everything that’s wilderness,
spanning wider and wider into
the last appellant of our birth, and thus is never ending
your sunrise in my heart—that I become
one with dawn, evoking
a poem along your body’s edgeless
reddened compassion
I am in love with—

III.  Dawn Muse

I let my pen go
round and round
softly in circles
around her appled sky;

she strips dark
from night,
warms dawn to fire—
I’m unasleep—

I do not compare her
with another
of anything;
so A to Z of our day

my complete jargon
is one word
whispered
in the half-light—

with my whole body
tongue lit
rung to rung, of
spiritual

mellow blue—
I kiss now
my yes-shaped
love for you—

IV.  Muse

You, you’re my muse
this morning before dawn, every dawn lit ceiling—
completely reasonless except it is feeling burning
a central fire column coming
from breath—

I dove into you—of green fires and blue fires,
songs of sparks both modest and not,
lovable madness to remember
me by—like looking out upon water, clear and real;
the edges are of nobody
but the heart is ready to be read centrally,
so centrally, throughout this roundabout room—

so that later there’s dinner and the back porch
in late spring-summer falling to pieces—in
tulips and crystals swept in loving laughter
to a risen Southern Moon—the image of you
walking on the dream-bloomed world;
small blooms and big blooms all over our bodies
emerging and disappearing, fireworks over unseen water—

when the music pattern
of the sky of night exposes womanly
chuckles of pure warmth;

when I believe in the one pattern only
spread across your beautiful springtime eyes,
the whole night sky and its inner light
from the opposite side of the cosmos;

when I look up at the ravishingly unknowable shapes
of us dreaming, if you wish, through the clearest of spaces
made tinglingly lucid of you
in the one heart of both of us
to live on through
in everything, unpausing forever, in love—

I wish all of us the most enlightenment cracked openness
again and again of one indeterminate
age in white fire blue—
this dream I’m of you—

V.  Muse on Muse

I am at my best, when buzzed of
melancholy happy—rolling
along, maybe only seconds behind
life made of nothing more

than this non-accidental moment—
I cannot so much as know
as really, really be—
At sunrise today, I spotted a place

where I could sit comfortably
near a kind kind of path pilgrimaged,
to hold my mind like feeling
a familiar shadow close by,

aware of me, and more, more than I—
I wait so patiently there,
that there’s no sound, deafening—
I sat down to earth, in the air,

watching you around,
calmly wholesome, only be—
A miracle circles the eons;
lucky in the morning veils

I feel, as the sun rolls
over the reddening lawn
toward my hands so rosy
of the prettiest of rays, and

when no one’s looking—
the wind collects up a little touch of
bravery, waking me
to recall your cherished name—

VI.  Muse, Stay Here With Me

wanting you so plainly on the dot—
listen—wanting you so plainly, so much badly;
so much badly—that everything is radiance

widening; our quality feels clear through—
i’m an audience gently watching—and the world
says i’m spinning its fluffy wheels of softest light

when being a being in love,
shot clear through—listen—in the everything world
i’m waiting for you

so much badly—so
nakedly—there’s such a radiance—a yearning
when everything counts—

when creation reminds us—when
what’s created doesn’t ever once sit still—
we as the threads weeping ourselves laughing together

in summer-warmth—in gravity and fire,
gravity and fire—so i divulge my yearning—
in wanting you so badly—

i divulge almost nasty my yearning—
i’m shining my eyes into the soul of you—
so much badly i yearn earthly your heart—pressed

gently into me, and mine to you when
we touched the sudden what in us—and now everything
is deeply painted, inspiring our vision deeper—

my heart—what i yearn for now i touch, everything
divulging so much, wanting you here now
so badly, i’ll be so my best for you—

Mr. Harper has the following to say about his muse poems: “This series of muse poems was inspired the old fashioned way.  I fell in love with a woman I couldn’t be with, but I knew she loved the sunrise.  Everyday I would go out into the dawn to look for her.  Although she was far away, I felt her presence with me.”

John Harper is a Pittsburgh native, and is currently living near Rutland, Vermont, as a garden hand.  He moves around a lot, and loves writing poetry in the early morning hours.  He has published (or is about to publish) his poetry, and is a graduate of the Writer’s Workshop at Iowa.

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