Arlene Corwin Poetry

I’m sending this again because today is the day – the 20th anniversary  of the sinking of the Estonia.

*Estonia sank September 28,1994 At the time I had no idea the impact

it would make. The death toll being ‘only’ six hundred something. The numbers kept changing.

** 20 years later. I have never sent this poem out into the Swedish world.

It is now the weekend of the 20^th anniversary of the Estonia tragedy. The poem is going out. The end result was 862 dead.

And Tracks Of Deer Are In The Grass

Last night a ferry sank.

I couldn’t sleep, and drank in

All the waters of the deep,

With, now nine hundred two and seven,

Called in minutes back to heaven,

Shamed and hesitant to write the question,

How long did it take to die?

Tortured by a string of pictures.

In the end, what’s left is I.

Always, only, left, the same old

I-in-the-shape-of me-oh-my,

For even while the world goes under,

I-in-me is what is left.

Through someone’s blunder,

Stunned, bereft, yet left to be,

I owe it to the passengers

To not think sentimentally;

Feelings squelched, brain observed,

Grateful, yes, and still unnerved

I see no other answer

Than to carry on the I and Thou

Till all gets answered

Through some tao,

Some mystic sweet know-how.

Half-guilty as the hours pass,

The light of day comes through the glass

And tracks of deer are in the grass.

And Tracks of Deer Are In The Grass 9.29.1994/2004/9.25.2014

Birth, Death & In Between; Our Times, Our Culture;

Arlene Corwin

*Estonia sank September 28,1994 At the time I had no idea the impact
it would make. The death toll being ‘only’ six hundred something.
2004. 10th anniversary of its sinking.
** 20 years later. I have never sent this poem out into the Swedish world. It is now the weekend of the 20th anniversary of the Estonia tragedy and I now know that the death toll was eight hundred something! The poem is going out.

And Tracks Of Deer Are In The Grass

Last night a ferry sank.
I couldn’t sleep, and drank in
All the waters of the deep,
With, now nine hundred two and seven,
Called in minutes back to heaven,
Shamed and hesitant to write the question,
How long did it take to die?
Tortured by a string of pictures.
In the end, what’s left is I.
Always, only, left, the same old
I-in-the-shape-of me-oh-my,
For even while the world goes under,
I-in-me is what is left.
Through someone’s blunder,
Stunned, bereft, yet left to be,
I owe it to the passengers
To not think sentimentally;
Feelings squelched, brain observed,
Grateful, yes, and still unnerved
I see no other answer
Than to carry on the I and Thou
Till all gets answered
Through some tao,
Some mystic sweet know-how.
Half-guilty as the hours pass,
The light of day comes through the glass
And tracks of deer are in the grass.

And Tracks of Deer Are In The Grass 9.29.1994/2004
Birth, Death & In Between; Our Times, Our Culture;
Arlene Corwin