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John Zwerenz
John Zwerenz Kew Gardens, NY / United States, Male, 46
Profession :
Journalist, poet, writer, musician
Education :
Graduate Studies, Queens College, CUNY
217 Points

About Me : John Lars Zwerenz (1969-) is an American poet. He was born and raised in Queens, a suburb of New York City. Zwerenz is known for his romantic, impressionistic and ... more »

Latest 5 Poems of John Zwerenz

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John Zwerenz's last comments on poems and poets

  • POEM: Mandela - The Immortal Icon by Chinedu Dike (10/11/2014 9:52:00 PM)

    A very well-written historical piece of acutely conceived verse. The atmosphere reminds one of The French Revolution, as well as our own, and the masses' attempt to find freedom. I know The United States, with its own civil rights struggles led by the great Martin Luther King Jr. was an inspiration to Mandela. Thank you Chinedu, for sharing this poem with me. - John Lars Zwerenz

  • POEM: Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe (10/11/2014 7:27:00 PM)

    Edgar Allan Poe is the most underrated poet of the last two Centuries. His poetic genius was unprecedented and he still possesses the most gilded diadems in the crown of poetic achievement. His verse speaks to the heart because Poe not only wrote poetry - he lived poetry.

    John Lars Zwerenz

  • POEM: The Witch's Grave by Colleen Courtney (6/8/2014 7:28:00 PM)

    Really wonderful cryptic imagery, Colleen.

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John Zwerenz's comments on forums

  • John Zwerenz (10/13/2014 10:19:00 AM) Post reply

    The most inspired verse is comprised of ethereal music.

    - John Lars Zwerenz

  • John Zwerenz (6/6/2014 10:11:00 AM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    “ON POETRY AND POETICS by John Lars Zwerenz I believe anyone can be a poet if they want to be one. Although I also believe one can not simply compose verse or prose and then go on to live in a common, conventional way that gives no heed to the intangibles of life, to the ethereal and to the mystical aspects of existence. Poets, to be true poets must live as poets, perpetually. That is to say they must sacrifice their own personal wills, inclinations and psyches, and offer them to God, to His muses, and to His providential wisdom, come what may. Often, as in the case of almost every bard whose works have survived through the centuries, to be a true poet entails trusting in the Lord enough to willingly go through ineffable hells and heavens here below, to go through ecstasies and agonies, to go through tortures and raptures, freely- as an oblation, for His sake. Thus the human spirit profits from such an oblation, which is infinitely more important spiritually to humanity than the sum effects of what one has written in books. Edgar Allan Poe wrote profound, beauteous verse because he was a profound and beauteous poet, not the other way around. One first must become a poet in life before one becomes a poet on paper. Such are my beliefs concerning poetry and poets. John”
    — ~ John Lars Zwerenz

  • John Zwerenz (6/6/2014 10:05:00 AM) Post reply

    Mary, The Mother of God

    The scenery of Mary's Court is green, white and gold.
    Green are her trees, white is the sun,
    And gold is of The Spirit, containing every other hue.
    There are brooks which run, of azure blue
    Through her forests and her gardens, framed by regal eglantines
    And gilded, holy, gleaming moss.
    The brooks are of wines,
    And gently toss
    The reeds which play beneath the cloudless sky.
    The Palace of The Virgin
    Is heaven to the eye.
    Her Kingdom is devoid of everything old,
    And pertains to only that which is new.
    The glistening gloss
    Of the morning dew
    Is found in her palatial field
    Where her rosy bowers yield
    Perfumes of marigolds, daisies and gems.
    I met The Mother Of God donning diadems.
    Her long, black hair
    Is astonishing to behold,
    As if all gold
    Finds its temple there.
    Her crown is studded with immaculate jewels,
    Each the reward of a Saint's fidelity.
    With a tender love she commands all citadels,
    And all the angels glory in her beauty.
    All the Saints are in awe of her dusky, Jewish eyes.
    Her gazes outshine the bright, celestial skies.
    And her skin is fairer than all of heaven's blooms combined.
    Her song is that of such a charming sound
    That it leaves a man blind
    To what is all around.
    Her fingertips are of a pearly-white,
    And when she roves in her Court, beneath the purple stars of the gleaming night
    She smiles at her sons and daughters in that vast and holy square,
    Majestic and massive, made of marble and stone.
    Her perfumes are of honey, and permeate the midnight air.
    She rarely wishes to be alone,
    Except for the times she converses with Her Son,
    Pacing on the hallowed beach, where the streams
    Of violets swirl around her feet
    And run
    To the tranquil sea, beneath the terrace where the vines meet.
    She is often inclined
    To find
    Her desires
    In sacred dreams.
    Her passions are those of chaste, refreshing, cooling fires,
    Guided by her reason
    Endowed beyond the wisdom of every time and place,
    Of every world, of every season.
    Nothing, no one, save
    For God Himself
    Possesses such a lovely face
    Whose expressions are light, yet sometimes grave,
    Grave as in solemn,
    For there are many souls she wishes to save.
    She frequents earth and purgatory,
    And in the latter, where the flames torment and lave
    She wipes the sweaty brows
    Of the suffering Saints.
    And she often allows
    Their punishments to cease,
    Long before their time,
    Ages before their due release.
    She often graces the dawn with celestial paints
    When cathedral bells chime in the western wood.
    And she loves to say
    When the consecrated pray
    In their cloisters of rapture,
    Clad with lindens, willows, yews and birch:
    'God Bless The Holy Roman Catholic Church! -
    Its eternal truths be praised! '
    She cares very much for Jerusalem,
    Where she was born and raised,
    And she is anxious for Israel to acknowledge her Son.
    She opens petals, one by one,
    Merely by caressing them in her little garden-close,
    In the corner of her spacious Court.
    The scent of her beauteous body
    Is of an immaculate, dark-red rose.
    And the rhapsody of her flowing voice
    Is bestowed to transport
    The hearts of all the blessed,
    Enraptured without a choice,
    To the highest realm in heaven, of music, art and rhyme
    Where The Magnificat is sung
    Beneath the dome of God's Cathedral,
    Far beyond the realm of time.
    John Lars Zwerenz

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