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

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: