The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 –2178


Volume-2                                                       JUNE -2012                                                    Number-1



The Vision of Dame Kind: Every Picture Tells a Story

 by Dr. David Garrett Izzo 

From the second-floor bedroom Carol called to me,

“See the three deer in the back!!!!!!!”

The big window became a nature movie: Deers at Play.

They played tag; they ate the brush.

I ate up the peace, truth and beauty that equal love.

Keats was right!

Our cats watched too!

Big Max and Huxley,

The inside movie watching the outside movie,

What a hoot! The deer danced and pranced;

They are happy; the cats are happy; I’m happy.

The deer disappeared back into the dense woods, our woods,

Just minutes from civilization. 

Do no harm! Compassion to all!

The truth/beauty dialectic

The urban/country dialectic.

The reconciliationof opposites.

Mysticism lives!

Mysticism is!



Sermons in Cats (for Aldous Huxley)

 by Dr. David Garrett Izzo 

The poignant prophet gave this advice to a writer who wished to be wiser and brighter.


“Watch cats…

And Learn.”


Give cats their due, for in their way they know more than you.

Truly, could the Egyptians have been wrong?

Or Auden? Or I, when we keep them at our sides?

(Or, rather, when they rightly chose to credit our existences as those good humans who

serve their food, for which they tip us lavishly with flagpole tails and



Ah, yes! Purring.


It is easy to listen to, hard to describe,


(but the feeling matches the look in their eyes).


Does it whir? Does it Moan? Does it groan or drone?


Ommmn! The last one seems on track.

And back it goes, this drone.

It has always been and always will be,

The same as “Time the refreshing river,” or the ocean’s sound and motion,

Or the frogs, and the locusts and other bugs whom we ignore singly until they reward us as an evening orchestra.


Or waterfalls?

Or whistling wind?


All of these chants will calm the reckless din.


All say, Come to me! But only to those who know how to listen.


And when every last notion of a broken world has been denied, leaving nothing,

Then one knows that all that remains is everything.


For in the purring, the sound of the universe is indivisible, as are you and as are we.


Watch cats and learn!


This was a good lesson.


The Art of Seeing

 by Dr. David Garrett Izzo 

Back window and a youngish old man facing south and sun on a clear day,


The old man is rocking in his old chair in the old house,

Eyelids closed.


He is Sun-eyed,

His inner eye is drenched in an impenetrable red that levels the playing field of sensory experience.


In this timeless red there is neither before nor after,

No regrets, no anticipations. Just an eternal now.


A branch rustles. Bird Alert!


Old Eyelids open to a snowy landscape.

A bird, a startling red Mr. Cardinal, is framed on a white matte backdrop;

Instinct sits him on an ice-shiny branch where he is precariously bobbing/swaying/praying.


This bird king sits for his portrait.


As if out of the sun, Mrs. Cardinal (the queen) and her handmaidens (five) fly down

To Flutter and dive in a circle around their emperor, heralding his majesty, waiting for his message.


They are as alive as he is still;

The Juxtaposition ennobling him all the more...


He is the endless goal,

Calm amidst motion,

Contemplation in the fray of events,

The center of the hurricane,

The stillnessof impenetrable red.




 The Well of Silence

 by Dr. David Garrett Izzo 

We seek:


The hearts of space,

The eyes of an eagle,

An insular Tahiti,

The center of the hurricane...

An All-rightness of being,

An At-homeness in existence. 


We get:


Gusts of apathy are the fodder of fools.

We are born in peace and will come to lie in a piece of earth

or burst in flame--dust to dust.


In between, the musk of self-proclaimed demi-gods wafts from the cold sweat of

steamy heads adrift in the frozen tundra;  this is the heat of system overload,

        an electrical fire of scorched

synapses ignited by the friction of rubbing against the world.


Crash and burn,

and from the flames, the misguided begging knows not where to turn;

they’ve no learning—humanism has no meaning to them—they are headed for Dante’s Inferno—not that they know where that is. Prayers will not help if there is no spirit in these empty suits.


The inhabitants of real spirit neither hear nor fear petitionary prayers,

As these are merely an insincere supplicant’s psalm-sucking balm to a toasted ego...


The real spirit waits in a well of silence

to be melded with, not begged to,

partaken of, not shaken by the zeal of the recently converted....


One lifetime is not enough:


Of all the forms of genius, goodness has the longest awkward age.


Faith in fate--


I praise all living, the light and the dark.*



*with an appreciation to Thornton Wilder