Before The Ego’s Fried

Before The Ego’s Fried

 

Before the ego’s fried in time,

In the death that I assume

Is silence in a silent world;

While ego mine

Still offers satisfaction

Of the sort that’s still attachment,

I would like to meet again

The world of once-relationships:

Lovers, friends,

Former all-the-ones who dropped away

Into the hole, where touching ends

And calling ends,

And Xmas cards and conversation

Are no more;

Before

The ego dies away

And I am spirited away

From an identity called me;

Before it’s fried and ties decay,

If one could bind up lost loose ends:

Fading lingerings of predilection.

 

Before The Ego’s Fried 7.17.2006

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Birth, Death & In Between;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Vulnerable

The Vulnerable

 

You read through fiction, verse,

The massive output worsening

Our worries: aging

Sickness, death –

And hit upon some principles

That ease.

One: none leaves

Mother earth alive;

Two: who

Does not lose vigor’s bloom

Once aging’s room is entered?

None whose telescopic zoom

Does not retract,

Contact with healthy everything

A blurring fuzz?

None of us.

We are the vulnerable everyone.

Who can say, “Why me?

Cry, ‘Child…mine…”why, always why.

Can one blame?

Curse heaven’s name when

It, the flaming absolute,

The same-for-all

Is same-for-all,

The game for all to play

With rules to learn, the critical.

 

The Vulnerable 2.26.2008

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Birth, Death & In Between;

Circling Round Reality; Nature Of & In Reality;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

And The World Gets Through Its Day 1.31.2015

And The World Gets Through Its Day

 

And the world goes on without me.

And the world gets through its day.

And you never start a sentence with an‘and’.

As I contemplate the boil on my gum,

The germ that could remove me in a night,

I take offense, collected sum

Of steam a dissipating stream

Which no one would so much as modify

One nano-second’s schedule for.

Earth without an Arlene in it

Without one adjusted minute.

Ants don’t change their habit-dance,

Corroborating colleague ants

Who pass away, heads bitten off.

Gigantic are the forces

Pushing onward, forward,

Nodding towards mortality.

This very day

My childhood friend rings up to say

His chemo- has been discontinued, insufficient.

Chemicals were not enough.

Stupid crab has gotten tougher,

Shifting upwards towards the head.

And the world gets through its day.

And the world goes on without one.

And you never start a sentence with an ‘and’.

 

And The World Gets Through Its Day 10.20.2006

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Birth, Death & In Between; Nature In & Of Reality;

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

 

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

Comeback

Comeback

 

Perhaps I should be grateful

That I never was recipient

Of great applause, years of adorers,

Years of being stunning,

Broadway’s honey (or the like).

Grateful that

I never had to bow out,

That I never got

To miss the kudos

(Never knowing what life was without them

‘Cause I never got them.)

Never got to play Las Vegas.

Grateful that

There never came a time of missing,

Longing for the non-existent encore;

Cheering I no longer hear.

Hair gone gray,

Kilos heading the wrong way,

You are asked to make a comeback,

(Or you’ve asked to make a comeback)

For life’s boring, and no hobby takes the place

Of people sitting in their places.

So you sweat and strain

To get those kilos off again,

To get back those routines

Where you could move (like in your teens),

With flexibility, the voice

Retaining every nuance.

We’ve seen Frank and Cher

Come back again…and then again…

We follow each rendition,

Each gradation, limitation and we cheer

Until we find our cheers have hesitation.

I am grateful that I never

Had the clamoring for autographs and tresses,

Tearing dresses, theirs and mine.

Never had the glamour and the clamor of the masses –

And the need to make a comeback,

Coming back to public whimsical and smelling wine,

Hard to define.

And still I grow.

 

Comeback 5.28.2008

Birth, Death & In Between; Time; Vaguely About Music;

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 

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