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).

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

Published in Duane Vorhee’s Poetree in foreshortened form.
Super!🤔✍️
😋
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.

Partners In Rhyme

     Partners In Rhyme

I’m so corny, but it’s fun!

Now to the question:

Who is partner in this scene

Where meaning

Starts and is developed

Meaningfully or codswallop-ed?

Meter counts (at least for me).

Perhaps it is the arbiter,

The bona fide and unalloyed: the real  partner

Overall or under all and after all.

Who knows

When poetry is prose,

Nonsensical or serious?

Sugar sweet or just plain noise?

Lachrymose or just plain gauze?

Perhaps there is no one collaborator

But spans of conspirators

From many sources 

Stacked and heaped and piled high

So that they’re quite unrecognised

By you and I  (by my own eye).

In any case, the phrase, though slight

Is quite deliberately sweet.

And so I use it on this sheet

For you to call it winsome

Or plain ordinary sh—t and cheap.

I repeat:

I can be trite, banal and corny,

But the irony

Is the I’m thoughtful in the written essay,

Trying to share silliness

Or whatsoever depth is there.

Perhaps that is the partner.

Partners In Rhyme 9.23.2018 A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

 

 

     After my poem “Ageing” I received the following comment.  One on which I hadn’t reckoned.  It inspired this answer and a new poem:

“Well, it is so true and depressing. I was reading this hoping that you wrote something positive at the end, bot not…I would really like you to conclude the poem with a POSITIVE end.  It’s my desperate request as I need it.” T.

Dearest T—-

     The positive in it is this: If you soak yourself in every moment (which requires constant trying – for trying is training – focussing on every breath, every deed, your whole existence changes.  The point is to become ‘perfect as your Father in heaven is perfect’ while you’re still alive.  Then there comes an automatic joy and insight In other words, the whole chemistry changes.  Ageing doesn’t change, but you do!  And for the better.  

     We must talk about this!  But I’ll continue to send you my poetry for most is filled with hope and optimism.  Even fun and funny.

Soak Yourself In Every Moment Or, Trying Is Training

Keep cool inside yourself.  

Detachment is the key.

It’s not un-interest or indifference:

But an objectivity, Impartiality,

Ability to see

                    things as they really are;

Possibility in probability

And vice versa.

When you peel off the outer, see the inner,

The illusion of exclusion drops away,

Inclusion comes to stay

And you’re so much, shall we say, 

Gladder, gay.*

(There was a time when gay meant light and full of glee;

Free of care, carefree:

A surely helpful way to be).

Keep cool and be life’s fool: flexib’ool’, adaptab’ool’, 

Versatile and tool of circumstance.

Life can be a dance,

Full of significance,

Non-material, 

And joyful. 

Soak yourself with honesty

In every little point in time – and see.

Life’s often fun – and funny.

Trying Is Training 9.12.2018 A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Circling Round Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin

 

I’d Like To Cut Down Summer Ferns

     Yesterday was, in Sweden, the day after Midsummer. A day when one is tired from having, almost certainly celebrated the summer solstice with partying and too much food and drink. We were no exception. We held our yearly neighbor pot luck in our beautifully decorated boathouse, its lawn all mowed, prepared for games, the accordion well tuned and lovingly played.
     In my next day fatigue, I sat in the sun, body exhausted but ideas flowingly showing, I wrote poetry from the sublime to the ridiculous: four in all. No mean feat. I’ll start with the ridiculous.
 
     I’d Like To Cut Down Summer Ferns✍️
 
I’d like to cut down summer ferns
Expanding in our garden.
Green ferns primeval,
Which ferns rival
All the flower beds surrounding.
Beautiful indeed, all feathery and willowy,
Silly me, I shouldn’t mind at all,
But they are growing taller by the hour.
They survived the dinosaur.
We don’t stand a chance, for that, my friends is power!
 
Hubby won’t allow it,
So I sit and wait,
The date of their demise in months,
While size
Increases up and sideways,
Sowing seeds for future summers.
 
Showing up in May, it’s June,
And they’re not going anywhere down under soon.
They’ve reached the rhododendron tree in height.
What I would do to earn the right
To cut the [gorgeous] ferns right down
To root and ground
And plant a plum tree there or near –
Something edible and useful,
Beddable, a flower bed and beautiful.
 
Oh well, and Sigh! And me oh my!
I guess I’ll learn
To love that fern
When it’s two stories high,
Shading out the blue of sky,
Or,
Cloning a new-fangled dinosaur.
 
I’d Like To Cut Down Summer Ferns 6.23.2018 Circling Round Nature II; A Sense of The Ridiculous II; Arlene Nover Corwin

The Whole Of Sweden’s Wearing Beards

Can’t help it. I see what I see!✍️
 
The Whole Of Sweden’s Wearing Beards
 
The whole of Sweden wears a beard.
Dare I say weird?
To go around all day un-sheared!
That, combined with bods tattooed:
Chest, breast, throat
And not a centimeter nude
(As made in God’s good world).
I am confused.
A new prosthetic? Possibly.
Aesthetic? Frequently.
A thing to lean upon,
Confirm an ego and/or vanity
That ought to go,
But no, it can’t,
The tattoo being permanent!
Beards! What are they there for?
To hide the origin of doubled chin – one just beginning?
Arctic winter?
Saving shaving?
What’s it for?
Why would one want one hair more!
 
I wouldn’t want to kiss a beard:
Whirly, curly,
Itchy, scratchy…
None a match for girlie me.
They’re dominating TV;
Interviewers, program leaders.
All I want are clean-cut readers.
 
One day someone just appeared
And pioneered a new grown beard.
A new veneer
Had filled the sphere: a fad was born;
The bearded fashion was in action.
 
I am waiting till it passes,
And the fashion turns to glasses
Or an emphases on ar___s.
Who can say?
 
The Whole Of Sweden’s Wearing Beards 6.17.2018 A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II; Swedish Book; Arlene Nover Corwin
 
 
 
 
 
 

Everything I Think, I Write

Some wonderful somebody In Hello Poetry (Ella Johnson) described my work as “amazing”.  I’m flattered beyond words. Such a powerful compliment makes one hardly feel worth it, BUT, if I it is that, it is because:
     Everything I Think, I Write
Everything I think, I write,
For better or for worse,
And since
I cogitate throughout the days,
The thought-turned-phrase
Converts the days to thought-turned-verse.
For some it’s money that’s thought bound.
For some it’s family circled round
Family, worry, God or Death.
My thing is Truth.
Through diverse channels,
Canals all, the universal stall of measure.
I see all as Truth the Treasure.
I can’t stop.  And who would want to.
Rhythm, melody and phrase
The driving craze in me. Yippee!
Here comes the sister poem called Everything Is Worth A Poem #2,
/ I’ve written one before).
If you’ve a sense of rhythm, rhyme,
Metered time, it’s worth a poem.
It may be so-so at the start,
But blurt it out, impart a theme,
It’s worth a go
To watch the darndest things start flowing.
As they insight into…
Clichés there will have to be.
It’s hard to say new, clear things simply.
Idioms on which you grew, they’re you, real you.
Take Dante. Using the colloquial,
To say the deepest things.
And pray!  They’ve lasted,
Nay, outlasted…never to decay as past.
You may start a shallow fellow –
Sleepy, hollow.
You have thoughts – just not developed;
Still a pearl inside the scallop;
You use couplets as your form.  Later on they won’t seem normal.
As you broaden, you’ll be lauded
By the gods of verse in Auden heaven.
Though this may turn out to be
A poem six hundred ninety-three,
And oh, so corny
You can see
It is the height of luxury
And makes me rapturously happy.
Everything I Think I Write 6.16.2018 A Sense Of Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

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