Mister Red Shift

Sitting here watching a science program about the next biggest telescope ever built.  To come out in 2018, it’s called the James Webb telescope.  Reminded about a poem I wrote in 2001 called Mister Red Shift, when I was captivated by by the most distant light then available: the red shift.
And now we’re planning to see even further.

Mister Red Shift

The core relationship I have
Is with you, Mister Shift –
Mister Red beyond the skies
At heaven’s end,
Beyond the stars and galaxies,
The disembodied substances
Whose silence is a dearest friend,
And furthest, cosmic-nearest friend
Whose essence never shifts.

Mister Red Shift 6.5.2001
Circling Round Nature; Nature In & Of Reality; To The Child Mystic; Revelations Big & Small; Circling Round Science;
Arlene Corwin

The Noble Prize

The Noble Prize, yes, Noble

This has been Nobel Prize week in Sweden.  I don’t know what to compare it to.  As big as Christmas, Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July…The entire week is taken up on radio and television with Nobel.  One learns about and from the prize winners inside and out.  They’re interviewed constantly.  They have a wonderful television seminar where they’re asked everything and  give their points of view about everything.  These are ordinary, yet great, great men.   Men with matchless focus, peerless perseverance.  Stick-to-it-ness that out does stick-to-it-ness.  30 years, 40 years  they wait – and work.  Bless them.

In December 2001 I wrote the following:

  The Noble Prize

Somewhere exists a noble prize –

An all-eternal prize:

A special type

Without the hype,

Where thought and motive –

Tripped from mind to fingertip,

From pencil scratch and paperclip,

Bind up the un-read whole.

A noble prize

For those who never published.

Those open-pipe, sagacious fools

Who, being tools,

Kept at one thing

By rolling out the scroll

To lengths

Immeasurably long;

Withdrawing ego-hand control,

And finding substance in a song

That never reached a critic’s blows,

But sensing something there that knows

Endeavor’s beauty

And rewards it.

The Noble Prize 12 10.2001

In 2015 I tinkered it to this:

             The Noble Prize #2

Somewhere exists a noble prize.

An all-eternal, special type

Without the hype,

Where thought and motive tripped

From mind and fingertip,

To pencil scratch and paperclip,

Bind the un-read whole.

A noble prize

For those

Who, never published,

Open-piped, sagacious fools

Becoming tools, keep at one thing

By rolling out a scroll

To lengths immeasurably long,

Withdrawing ego-hand control,

Find substance in a song

That never reach a critic’s blows, (or nose or rose)

But sensing something there that knows

The beauty of endeavor

Reimbursing time.

The Noble Prize 12 10.2001/revised 10.12.2015

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative, II;

Arlene Corwin

I Love Talent

 

I love talent!

I just love talent!

Talent is an ace,

A grace –

A freebee,

Blessing,

Something that you get for nothing;

Something that’s a bank, a chest

Of treasures

And a toolbox all-in-one.

What next, and

How to reach it,

Find and turn it

From a talent

To a skill? Still more,

Teach it

How to be its best?

 

Talent’s quest as guest of soul:

Soul butler and handmaiden.

I love toiled refinement

And the balance of alignment;

Risk of pain,

Of world’s disdain:

A talent in itself –

And I love talent.

 

I love Talent 8.17.2001(revised 9.25.2015)

Special People Special Occasions; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

From A God’s-Eye Point Of View

From A God’s-Eye Point Of View

 

From a God’s-eye point of view

I watch and see

And make no judgment –

Nothing that would damn.

It’s all a blessing:

Schemer, cheat:

The energy.

The sheep who bleat within the arts

Without the talent in their parts:

The energy.

I love it all.

I watch them climb.

I watch them fall —

I even love the climber’s fall.

To hear a singer who can’t sing,

Attempt to sing;

A politick that doesn’t tick,

Can never tick –

The politician’s game and trick;

The planetary shift of coin

From poor to rich, from rich to poor;

I join the stitch that joins the poor.

The amateur, professional;

The sad, bad, glad mad, fad attempts

That link it all –

I like it all.

It gets my whole approval.

Not the quality or quantity,

But energy; the haul,

The long haul and beyond.

 

We’re bonded.

All the actors, all the acts,

All the tactless, misjudged pacts;

We’re glued,

When viewed

From God’s objective eye.

 

From A God’s-Eye Point Of View 1.5.2001

To The Child Mystic; God Book;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

God Push-ups 2001/2013

God Push-Ups

“Good morning, God”,

She says, while sitting on the step

Outside the house, eating her meusli.

“Plan my day! No,

Let me carry out

The plan You made before the suns!

No, make it clearer to me,

Let me be

obedient.

I mean, let me go up a step or two

With energy or clarity –

Or both.”

Is this to be a day

Self-disciplined, constructive,

Or is it to be a vagrant day,

A turgid brain,

A day of sloth?

Good morning, God.

You know already;

It’s been planned.

Let this anomalously baby-wish

Make me somebody’s helping hand.

Yours?

You don’t need help.

Theirs?

They’re in the plan as well.

Mine, my own?

Well, maybe, since I too am programmed.

Everyone needs push-ups.”

God Push-ups 7.3.2001/3.20.2013

To The Child Mystic; God Book;

Arlene Corwin

I’ve No Beginning Nor An End

I’ve No Beginning Nor An End

I’ve no beginning or an end:

I will convince myself of this –

It is so logical to me;

And yet I fear as others fear –

The ones to whom it has no logic.  Yes,

I have – as all the others –

The Great Fear.

(You know the one I mean,

The one where I’m no longer here)

Which I must work away.

No beginning and no end:

It is so logical to me.

The mind goes back-through day on day.

I feel my way to no-beginning.

Why then, do I struggle forward,

Fight for life,

The little grain of planet sand,

This microscopic grain of sand

That is an I

In universe that is,

That will itself not die?

With no beginning and no end

One should exhilarate, not cry,

Not plague oneself with questions, dry

And fruitless.

One should kiss

An eye for eye

And say yes almost all the time.

I’ve No Beginning Nor An End 12.30.2001

Birth, Death & In Between; I Is Always You Is We;

Arlene Corwin

I Love Talent 2001

I Love Talent

 

I love talent!

I just love talent!

Talent is a grace, an ace –

A freebee: blessing,

Something that you get for nothing;

Something that’s a bank, a chest,

A toolbox/treasure all-in-one.

How to leach it, turn it

From a talent to a skill;

Tease it, teach it

How to be its best,

A handmaiden

And guest of soul.

Toil at the risk of pain,

Refinement but

The world’s disdain

Align themselves

In talent,

And I love talent.

 

I Love Talent 8.17.2001

Special People Special Occasions;

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And the balance of alignment

Of the quester

Who risks pain of world disdain

 

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