Eccentricity Isn’t Craziness, It’s Daring

              Eccentricity Isn’t Craziness, It’s Daring

Eccentricity isn ‘t craziness, it’s daring 

To the -enth degree:

A caring not what they decree,

Not caring what they think of me.

The unconventional disarming,

Often charming – 

What is normal?

Living life like all the rest, 

I guess accepting colorlessness.


Planets are eccentric

And the sun’s just doing fine.

It shines on planetary quirks,              

Sustains the quirk so that it works.  


We too can be a sun;

No planet going round,

No moon, but one 

Unusual, bright son-of-a gun                             

Who does his ‘thing’ because it is 

The only thing that makes things run,

The only thing that makes life fun

The misfit may not be a genius,

May be middling or bizarre.

Having said that, I give honor

To the one who does his thing

Since he sees through

The illusion, the delusion, the chimère .             

Eccentricity Isn’t Craziness…9.3.2015 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; revised/ 9.30.2018 Arlene Nover Corwin

No Man Is A Victim

         No Man is A Victim

Can it be, and do I mean it?

It’s a phrase that came to mind,

And so I looked it up.  

One harmed or killed by so-called fluke;

One duped or tricked;

One who feels helpless faced with setback:

So I  chose the last to help.


There’s truth in fate that causes earthquake,

And one’s sole concern’s escape.  

That is a victim.

Then again, 

One is alive, glad to survive.

Grounds to begin

Because one can!


But what about 

The ones who feel useless in the face of sense,

Interpreting all happenings

With sadness, negativity and impotence,

Downhearted from the very start? 

You’ve known a few. Me too.

Perhaps it’s you,

And what to do –

The problem philosophical, pragmatic, existential. 

And, if one’s inclined, then spiritual.


Start a something, anything, for life’s a skill.

Good comes from bad, calm follows ruin;

Results come from what’s had or been;

And nothing lasts forever.

One’s endeavour is to strive,

For one’s alive.  

Remember that you’re clever!


Act as if you have a choice 

And make one – with your tiny voice.

Summon up your forces,

For of course, they’re many.

Do not hurry.

Lives are scurrying around you.

Do not worry,

For the ‘musts’ and ‘oughts’

Are values of society,

Not boo-choo, cry 

Or future you.

No Man Is A Victim 9.30.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II;Nature In & Of Reality;Definitely Didactic II; Arlene Nover Corwin

The Highest Prize

       The Highest Prize

I am not intelligent;

IQ middling, slow to think

(except when I’ve had caffeine’s drink))

I know people whose vocabulary,

Skills in math and history

Outdo, surpass and outshine mine

By kilometres miles,

Eclipsing talents, each outrivaling  

My wiliest of guiles.


And yet, and yet

I lie or sit 

And never quit

Creating verse.

My biggest blessing, little-lest curse

To (all the time) be struck by phrase

That never hazes, 

Never dazes or confuses.

Simply takes my life and uses it.

Perhaps fusing the parts, (I hope)

Unjoined or compromised or dopey.

Of course, being the seated type

That learned to type when just a tike,

I snap things up and write them down,

Typing up and clipping to with paper clip

Each page of quip and deepest scrip*

While taking ownership of ideas wise

And ideas definitely dippy.** 


I admit, without self praise, 

That I’ve been blessed with artist-joy.

(A gift I didn’t have to buy

It being given me for free).

The gift to knock together, forge concoct,

Then synthesise chords, words, whatnot…

The highest prize I could’ve got.


Perhaps intelligence is overrated.

One can feel complete and sated

By a zillion other qualities:

Not sensory but definitely

Meeting needs:

Ones that feed the world as well.

All other prizes, as you know,

Gone to the hell of false impression’s phantom spell:  

Of no importance whatsoever.

The Highest Prize 9.30.2018 I Is Always You Is We; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Arlene Nover Corwin

*(written certificate)

**(scatterbrained, silly or eccentric).

The Final App

Serious stuff. 🤔✍️
The Final App
So long as there is goodness
There will be opposites:
A law we can’t avoid.
As long as there is progress
With its wonders of development
There will be back-gress, re- and anti-:
Laws we can’t
So to technology:
Computers, cell phones, services;
Apps, addictions, nervousness;
Vanities and egos fed,
Selfies, instagrams;
Days of
With its never-to-be-satisfied with how we look;
The hook that watches, snatches, catches us in batches.
It’s our culture,
It is nature,
It’s expansion and contraction:
It’s the final app.
The Final App 9.29.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II: Circling Round Vanities; Arlene Nover Corwin
Arlene Corwin

The Illumined Poet

     The Illumined Poet

Who is he? 

Does he exist?

Is he consistent?

What does he see that others don’t?

Does he know what others don’t?

Is he he, or can he also be a she?

In these days you have to ask,

For it is ‘in’ to be defender

Of the genders one and all.


Poets stand, some sit in chairs;

While sitting up in bed some stare

Into an inner or an outer space

While letting, waiting, waiting, letting

Ideas come with no thought as to future comings,

Future poem-ings,


Afterwards he/she is empty.

Emptied of all relevance 

To theme that took poetic stance,

Metered dance, 

Seemed to be an endless well.


A well, it wells up from below.

What does it do?

Flows upward, outward, 

Shooting, spewing, spurting, spouting, 

Summer-springs that sprout

Ideas, conceptions, thought.


No one knows where all this comes from;

Poet-sage without intention, 

Living on without ambition,

Driven by no aspiration,

Only the illumination 

Bringing into birth a poem

That some

Will grasp, appreciate,

Others miss or misinterpret:

Know it! 

This rare member of the planet: 

The illuminated poet!

The Illumined Poet 9.28.2018 Revelations Big & Small; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

Don’t Copy Or, Have I Said This One Before?


When I write I try to not write what I’ve writ

The months before, knowing that

Each three clichés, each thrice said phrase

Is hinder to the mind’s synapse.


Used-up words five times five hundred,

Never wond’ring why I’ve done it:

I don’t want to copy –

Least of all myself and me.


Falling for the trick that quickens death of brain

Are quirks and quips and bits of what

You’re sure has happened, quoted over, over.

Mind’s a rover needing change.


I have friends who still say “weird” to amplify each seventh word;

“Weird” since nineteen eighty-four.

What it means I’ve no idea.

And what is that word  ‘weird’ good for?

Change the words,

For copying yourself is worst.


Am I copying my back life story?

Parroting, regurgitating clichés,

Making up my history?

Faking mystery

To make myself exciting?


Copying is weakening

For you, for me, for memory.

Variety’s the key.

You do not need to copy.

PS There’s a red line running through our lives: character, aptitudes, permanent throughout.  Bones grow up, grow old and change.  Penmanship changes.  Underneath there’s always a youyou recognize.  Keep it in the frontal lobe.  It’s there.

Don’t Copy 3.1.2015/revised 2.3.2016/ re-revised 9.27.2018 Definitely Didactic II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin










I’ll Send You The Menu, Or, I Like To Rhyme

Published in Duane Vorhee’s Poetree in foreshortened form.
ARLENE CORWIN promises, “I’ll Send You The Menu Or, I Like To Rhyme”:
I hear it in each idiom,
Each group of words,
Expression, phrase –
No matter what one says,
It could be innocent or dirty; –
Curd or bird or slurred or turd,
Deep or shallow, nothing’s hallowed.

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