Reading My 12th Book (Circling Round Nature) 6.12.2014

Reading My Twelfth Book


I may have genius living in my house,

Renting out some secret room.

I read my book of poetry. Some

Me I do not recognize:

A memory I’ve no mem’ry of;

An unfamiliar work where every

Word sparked wonder.

“Is it me, I wondered, underlying all of this?”

Each syllable, each metric notion,

Depth of oceans fathomless –

This poetry was mine:

Really fine.

Skimming pages in the book

I almost did not want to look –

That person there with observations I don’t have;

Oblations for the saving

[Of mankind].

Stumped, mystified,

This reader more than satisfied,

Not vanity or pride, but riddle;

Feeling little in the face of something bigger.

Who had scribbled all these pages?

Who is liege

Of hand, pen, brain?

It is a mystery –

And who am I?


Twelfth Book 6.12.2014

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;

Arlene Corwin


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