The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

Volume-1                                              december-2011                                                    Number-2






                                 by Eric Torgersen


Only the well-designed is beautiful?

Only the clearly defined is beautiful?


Years of study, talk and contemplation.

Only the most refined is beautiful?


Not the woman but the conceptual frame

in which she lies so gracefully reclined is beautiful?


In the legendary Kingdom of Clear Sight,

the heightened receptivity of the blind is beautiful.


They have no right to be here so, and yet

every shape they make, entwined, is beautiful.


They’re face to face, at times their eyes too meet,

and also the entry from behind is beautiful.


What sweet pain for the moralist aesthete—

those moments when the least kind is beautiful.


Of prisoners of conscience in a cell,

in certain lights, the most resigned is beautiful.


How old were you when you first realized

how frequently the most maligned is beautiful?


If you see Eric, tell him he’s all right.

At least he tries. Not every mind is beautiful.



                             by Eric Torgersen 


The hills, the rocks, the sun—the strangers.

Up here we have our fun with strangers.


The hills, the rocks, the sun are ours.

We won’t be overrun by strangers.


Accomodations might be reached

with our kind, sure, but none with strangers.


We trust you won’t be taken in

by tales of suffering spun by strangers.


We’re patient people, to a point,

but ready to be done with strangers.


Now please step back, out of the way—

this business was begun by strangers.


We warned you, Eric. The hills are ours

that with our blood we won from strangers.