Today is a serious anniversary in Sweden: 20 years after the Estonia sank.

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 20th 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

 

 

 

 

Selfies 9.28.2014

Selfies

 

Selfie:

Curiosity and vanity:

Not entirely

A good thing,

Not completely bad.

 

Self-portraits’ age-old part in art

(Rembrandt, not the least)

A search for who-am-I,

A deep look into change;

In short, the kind of searching

Lauded by the scientist –

The problem this:

Vanity and narcissism.

 

Not touching inner truth – not yet,

Youth reigns awhile:

Only a mile out of thousands left,

Search diverted

And at worst, perverted.

 

Selfie sounds like selfish.

Poor things, little darlings,

Stuck inside a modern trend

That lends itself to nakedness.

Let us hope that as they grow –

Insightful, bored of self-absorption, selfies end,

At least turned into life enhancing,

Honest, blameless, self-effacing

Undefiled and purified modification.

 

Selfies 9.28.2014

Circling Round Vanities II; Our Times, Our Culture II;

Arlene Corwin

 

And Tracks Of Deer Are On The Grass (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.

** 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. We now know that the death toll was over eight hundred fifty.  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

 

And Tracks Of Deer Are On The Grass 9.25.2014

*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

Am I The Only One? 9.15.2014

Am I The Only One?

 

When I’m alone with no one there

To stare or glare or comment –

No evaluation,

Criticism,

I can eat without discrimination,

Never caring about

Manners, choice of food, the combination

Or the volume.

I can eat, oh boy, can I consume!

Soups and pasta, brussel sprouts,

Meatballs, beans, the means

A spoon – no cutting, slicing.

Cheeks like hamsters,

Stuffing in and crooning satisfactorily.

Oh yes, coffee

With a pie I’ve baked,

Nibbling the parts liked best.

Crust? Nah, the syrupy and gooey top.

It’s mine, and I

Can mop up any parts I opt for.

Am I all alone in this?

I don’t think so.

 

Am I The Only One? 9.15.2014

Pure Nakedness; A Sense Of The Ridiculous;

Arlene Corwin

 

We Were Children Yesterday 8.31.2014

We Were Children Yesterday

We were children yesterday.
Today death – mongrel scoundrel –
I can’t rid myself
Of parallel, phantasmagorical illusions,
Their wind winding ‘round,
Entwining every segment, every episode
Of life. Meetings with man, woman, child
Depleting brain or greeting brain
(whichever you prefer) with
“Death is always near, you hear?”
And nothing you can do can steer it”
Meters, miles of babies born, and Rita,
Eighty-two today,
Was my dear playmate yesterday.
So in conclusion… There is none.

We Were Children Yesterday 8.31.2014
Birth, Death & In Between II; Birthday Book;
Arlene Corwin

Exactly On The Stage As Off 9.11.2014

Exactly On The Stage As Off

I would like to be exactly on the stage as off,
Think of everybody there as friend
Who’ll bend to, likes to, wants to
Be engaged by me;
A give and take for maturation.
Always obstacles of sort,
Uneasiness that stops the art
From being free,
Which isn’t fair to them or me –
The freedom multi-leveled;
Just to let it flow, the rest to follow:
That’s what I would like to happen:
Unflappably at one.
But apples of desire stick you in the mire,
Performance up the spout or down the drain.
Look at entertainers,
The biggest in the business;
Fallen on their asses more than once;
Spirits free, their art created constantly,
They keep the flow.
They keep on going.
As for me, just when I think I’m ‘there’,
I can distinctly sink when least expected:
Someone famous in the audience can do it.
Perfectionism, fear of judgment, criticism
Manifesting through the hands, knees, voice…
Fear, the boss.
This year’s resolutions:
Besides a headstand everyday
And shunning vanity
It’s to become exactly on the stage
As off, presuming I’ve an art that’s worth the say.

Exactly On The Stage As Off 9.11.2014 (found on a scrap dated 10.27.2012)
Vaguely About Music II;
Arlene Corwin

Coming Soon! God Book

COMING SOON!  GOD BOOK by ARLENE CORWIN published by Xlibris.

         In this book you’ll see my theology and cosmology. You’ll see, as I see in the editing, methods/ideas I’ve used in the past and still use.   God Book is, in some places very like To The Child Mystic, only more stripped, more direct. God Book is about God.  Full stop. Period.

     In each new book, this being the 13th, I find myself revising and updating. Each new edition seems to bring me one step closer to whatever it is I am as an author.   God Book has had so many poems altered I can hardly keep count. Starting out at 276 poems, I’ve managed to whittle them down to 168. Each new book really is a new book – even with the fact that some of the poetry was written as much as 55 years ago. I have to keep telling myself that Whitman wrote, published, rewrote, published again, re-re-wrote and published yet again. It’s such a comfort: Johnny Mercer, Leo Tolstoy, both re-writers. One could do a doctorate on re-writers

       I am traceable through my poetry. The changes, the development, the evolution – I [happily] see it myself as I edit.

     Sometimes a personal god, sometimes an impersonal one,  a He or It depends on the need of the moment. Truth is supra-linguistic – all pronouns suit. It is the relationship that counts.

      Truth knows exactly what it is doing. Not that it ‘does’ in the sense of actively participating in movement. Not that it ‘knows’ in the active sense either. It’s an operating law, this truth with a big T. Not doing, not knowing, but producing effects.

     You’ve got to see things in the cosmic sense –hugely; causes way-in producing effects way-out, producing in turn, causes way-out which produce effects way-in. And you, who see catastrophes, human and natural – you, who want to affix blame on something, someone – for you (I,we) there is only one personal alternative in the absence of answers: distancing in the form of seeing things as they would be seen way out in the cosmos, the only pre-supposition being this: there is such a thing as truth that is not dependent on relative values. It is Truth with a big T.

     I’ve got friends who, when we talk about truth, say things like “Whose truth” or “What do you mean by truth?” To them I say, don’t read this. Laws work but they don’t do anything themselves. They are more like rules of the game, bases from which things operate. You can’t get any more basic than Truth, big T: all encompassing truth.   God.

 

   Off-the-cuff and finally, it’s your happiness and peace of mind we’re talking about here.

 

Why Am I Rushing It? 9.3.2014

Why Am I Rushing It?

With two months left,
Why am I rushing it?
Not yet the eighth decade.
It is a low-grade vanity
To rush the thing.
Who am I kidding?
Just exactly where one is
Is just exactly where one’s meant to be.
As of this moment
I am seventy-nine,
Nine months,
Three days
Eleven hours.
Happy
At computer,
Typing merrily away.

Why Am I Rushing It? 9.3.2014
Birth, Death & I Between II; Circling Round Vanities II;Birthday Book;
Arlene Corwin

When I Sit Down To Sing 9.3.2014

When I Sit Down To Sing

 

When I sit down to sing,

Audience to watch & listen,

I, into the swing of it,

Some great something comes about.

Inner timing takes me over. I go with it.

Tempo has its way with me;

Key becomes another key.

B flat turns into B or C;

Dynamics swell and lower. Nowhere

Has this been constructed.

Each new note a birth, if I allow it;

A new dawning;

Nothing that I can regret in case

I screw it up and fall off the piano bench,

Forget a verse, go blank on chord.

It wouldn’t matter afterward

(In fact it happened once;

I laughed and just kept going)

Process is the thing,

The giving birth that very evening

I never, ever look back…

I just do it.

And I like it

When it’s happening.

And I sit down to sing

People there to watch and listen.

 

When I Sit Down To Sing 9.2.2014 (found on a scrap 12.11.2012)

Vaguely About Music II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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