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

 

Existence Process In The Head

Existence Process In The Head

 

I’m either,

Thinking about things to do,

Things I miss,

Things I’m short of,

Things I want,

Or things to do with people,

Duties,

Gossip,

Guilt-trips –

Then I’m bored:

Vacuous or restless.

It leads normally to God,

Existence,

Non-existence;

Finally, to giving in

And up.

I am a nothing something:

Helpless, frail.

Then I pray

A giant nothing prayer.

There’s nothing there

Except a nothing-I and no-thing You.

Then it’s through

Until the next time.

 

Existence Process In The Head 6.20.2004

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; To The Child Mystic; God Book;

Arlene Corwin

A Lesson From watching & Listening 2004

A Lesson From Watching & Listening

A cockatiel, rescued outside

In a nearby Swedish wood

Where he could never haved survived the cold,

Pried, somehow by neighbor x,

A crippled leg potentially his death-knoll;

Offered to us, we

Immediately called him Toby

For no reason I can think of.

 

Joining two more in the cage,

He gains advantage (I have read)

Singing long, long bars

He’s learned somewhere –

Golden notes to dodge a fight,

To make the bully birds take flight

And seek another lair.

 

The next time someone picks on me,

I’ll sing a long, long melody.

Stay in the room and face my foe.

If I’ve been wronged

I’ll sing my territory song,

The longest, sweetest song I know,

And see just what I win.

 

A Lesson From Watching & Listening 6.13.2004

Circling Round Nature; Vaguely About Music;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

People Get Tattoos

People Get Tattoos

People get tattoos

Because

They think that there’s no change,

Because they’re vain, in love…you name it.

Choose

Because they’ve no idea

That what was butt or breast or chest

Firm-formed, de-forms

With ‘budding bicep rose’ becoming

Wrinkled, wilted posy -of-the-elbows.

I suppose it’s all to do with time

And how we throw away prime

Energies, the side- and peepshow

We once worshipped with a gusto.

 

Worn and old.

Tattoo, you are a symbol

Of myopia and youth,

Cockeyed view of truth that lets us down.

 

Still, there always will be those

Who need tattoos – jewelry indelible,

Refusing reason until gusto is disgust.

There’s nothing one can say or do

Except re-sing this blemished tune

For anyone who’ll listen:

Just be witness and abstain.

 

People Get Tattoos 7.20.2002 /1.18.2004

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Definitely Didactic; Time;

Circling Round Vanities; Circling Round Wrinkles;

Arlene Corwin

To The Doctor Who Examines Me 2002 2004

                                        To The Doctor Who Examines Me

 

I was thinking that this body is a unit and,

If you don’t see a pattern

In the portions that go wrong,

Then perhaps you’re sitting in a chair

To which you don’t belong:

Too tired, young, or not attentive.

How I wish you’d see the symptoms

As an ocean bowl,

With rivulets connecting whole

To dams and sluices where the juices,

Pebbles, stones are formed within, all kin

To one another.

It is obvious that pain or pressure

Down a leg has a connection to the hip,

The pelvis, stomach, large intestine – let’s not skip

The knuckle bumps, hard private lumps

With their connection to the rest:

Cholesterol and stressed out parts

In hearts not happy pumping.

Always working to your best,

To fix a system that will not dissect –

One hard to see: a one-in-many,

And God knows, one hard to diagnose.

Yet it’s your job to cure,

Find sense, be sure –

Which can’t be done

Unless you see the parts-in-one

Which, failing to do

Means you’re still too

Young and blind,

Or just not paying mind

Enough attention.

 

To The Doctor Who Examines Me 6.30.2002  (revised 9.18.2004)

Birth, Death & In Between; Circling Round Nature; Definitely Didactic;

Arlene Corwin 

Country Life

Country Life

 

You wouldn’t think much happens here,

But I’m reminded as I write

That drama of the magnitude

Of Shakespeare’s tragedies unite,

Not open to the public.

Frogs are flattened,

Deer are drowned,

Dogs go lost,

Trees are downed –

Magnificent, gigantic things,

Significant beyond their rings.

Fledglings never get to fly,

Snakes are dropped from out the sky.

Desperate bees glassed-in in pain,

Looking, never finding ‘out’ –

You’d never guess

That in the neat and cared-for grass

The cat that sleeps here as I write

Becomes the reaper of the night –

A Jack the Ripper, skilled and heartless

Stalking, lurking, lurching –

Never dream that cosmic struggles

Make their place right here

Where battlegrounds and contests jeer

At life’s apparent concord.

Country life –

The quiet life

Where nothing seems to happen;

Let me tell you…

 

Country Life 9.7.2004

Circling Round Nature; Birth, Death & In Between; Cat Book;

Arlene Corwin

My Middle Name Is Faith 2001 2004

         My Middle Name Is Faith

It’s not that I don’t like it,

It’s that I’ve not yet embraced it,

Happening as it does, or seems

To do, so quickly overnight.

A process that I still don’t understand – not quite.

An age, the wrong side of the wrong side;

Stronger, weaker, ripened, mellow;

Still a seeker; seasoned fellow

Still preparing.

There are signs of maturation,

Both the rotting and the sprouting,

Yet the outer still concerns me:

Hanging, wrinkling, liver spots,

Graying hair and graying grin,

Growths like grain,

Red blotches, blots

Of pigment loss on what was porcelain;

Dropping off, a muted snore,

Dryness in the privates sore;

Swellings, shrinkings, pills galore –

Costing more

Than they are worth.

It comes so quickly, or it seems to –

Deficits and extra needs

In karmic keeping with the deeds.

Still, it fosters going inwards,

Digging deeper, hunting it;

Hunting something fall- and spring-less,

Everything-ness

In its self.

My middle name is faith.

©My Middle Name Is Faith 4.19.2001 2.5.2004

Circling Round Woman; Time; Circling Round Nature;

Birth, Death & In Between; Circling Round Wrinkles;  Arlene Corwin

 

  

 

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