Sing Your Song All Wrong As Long As It Feels Right

Wrote this this morning after I’d seen a Swedish singing star interviewed with torn, torn jeans talking about how he came to be no longer nervous when performing.

Sing Your Song All Wrong As Long As It Feels Right

 (a prose poem  – meter but no rhyme – well, a little)

 

I used to be invisibly controlled by rules,

Sometimes blamed on pressures peer:

Perhaps I am still, will be ever.

Rules inhibit, yea, dear reader,

Leading art and your behavior.

Double whammy*, inspiration, guide and model

When you would most like to feel

Creative, and spontaneous,

Well pleased, extemporaneous.

 

Subtle, so immensely, so intensely so;

Astonishing how much one swallows,

Soaking up, believing garbage as god’s truths

So hard to scrap;

All those rules coming from the praxis of the earthliest of mouths.

 

What is it sought beyond all else?

It’s freedom, spontaneity,

Belief that what you’re doing

Is its own confession, own possession;

Valid as the others

Always followed and believed the best.

 

Now I’m older.

Times have altered.

Folk appear on television with torn jeans.

Fashions once thought awful – trends.

In the end,

The young will always be impacted by

‘The others’ they think templates,

Patterns, blueprints, guides.

I have seen the light.

Sing your song all wrong as long as it feels right.

 

Sing Your Song All Wrong 4.21.2018 Vaguely About Music II; Our Times, Our Culture II; I Is Always You Is We; Definitely Didactic; Arlene Corwin

whammy |ˈ(h)wamē|

noun ( pl. -mies) informal

an event with a powerful and unpleasant effect; a blow : the third whammy was the degradation of the financial system. See also double whammy .

an evil or unlucky influence : I’ve come to put the whammy on them.

ORIGIN 1940s: from the noun wham + -y 1 ; associated from the 1950s with the comic strip Li’l Abner, in which the hillbilly Evil-Eye Fleagle could “shoot a whammy” (put a curse on somebody) by pointing a finger with one eye open, and a [double whammy] with both eyes open.

I Like Facebook

Sitting in the bath once again, small blue pad in hand, bit of plastic as support, I write this poem.   Albert Cat demands a bit of attention and pad slides into the water.  I grab a bit of toilet paper to blot it.  That makes it worse.  So, blurred and vague, I reconstruct it, using magnifying glasses (2!) while watching the evening news.  Here it is:

             I Like Facebook

I like Facebook. I don’t know exactly why.

I like looking at the pictures,

Friends I’d never meet another way.

I like friendly messages,

Passages of verse I’d never read

If not for Facebook’s lead.

I like Likes and Comments kind,

Find in comments rich expressions.

Possibly I’m one of few – or few new millions.

I’m inspired when tired, fired up.

Even when I’ve written ‘crap’

No one’s there to trap me.

Some reviewer always sees my views,

Understands.

Someone always sends

Me praise; ends with a Like.

I’ve never had a spikey word;

Cordiality is all I’ve ever read or heard.

Commonality forever somewhere, there

Where someone wants to start a group.

Always somebody to whoop de whoop:

Somewhere folk who populate;

A troupe with common passions.

Then there are the monthly Happys:

Happy Birthdays, Christmases and Easters…

Never had one word rescinded.

Reminded gently daily:

Classmates, playmates

I’d forgotten, dovetailed,

Blazoned on the psyche;

Friends and places,

And of course, the faces –

It is Facebook, after all; the key, the glee,

A source of history.

As for weaknesses I’ve read about –

Never think to route them out,

Going ‘bout my business,

Focused on creativeness,

The lofty and the small.

I like Facebook.

Happy Facebook to you all!

I Like Facebook 3.31.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Corwin

 

 

  

Can It Be?

             Can It Be?

Can it be that we

No longer have to worry,

Be concerned about IQ and such,

It not much longer meaning much

When something’s to be learned?

 

Can it be we do not need those centers

To adapt and enter

Higher states,

Taking in non-useful crates

Of knowledge and/or information.

 

Wouldn’t that be lovely…

Days that don’t demand the shove

Of knowledge from an app

To make you happy?

 

Synapse, axon, neuron:

Hordes of intricate connections

Just to reach a level new;

Some new standard, some new status

You consider you.

 

Well, it seems that they’ve discovered

What you probably knew all the time:

You only need a darned few dendrites,

Through the days and nights

Of facts and figures all around;

Surrounding signals chemical/electric

To slow down the darned runaround.

Can it be that life that thrives

Is simpler than our brains surmise

From all the data thrown at us?

 

Maybe just a little meditation

And the silencing of motion

In the ocean of illusion

And the feeding of a news that’s false –

What we’re really needing,

The concoction and the potion

Has been right before our noses

All the time.

Can It Be? 3.29.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II; Revelations Big & Small; Arlene Corwin

From Popularity Comes Danger

I never remember what poetry I’ve put on Facebook or even on my own site, Arlene Corwin Poetry. And I’m much too lazy to check. (I suspect that that’s the danger when one writes everyday) If you’ve read this before well, read it again.
It just is what it is. The fact that Sweden’s smuggled weapon rate has skyrocketed since the Malmö-Denmark bridge was built – as has the crime rate. A good example of the dark side of the moon.
The dark side of the bright side.💭
From Popularity…
(comes danger)
From popularity comes hazard,
Risk of peril,
Boy or girl at danger’s call.
From anonymity comes shelter:
No one knowing you at all.
 
Every country loves its tourists –
Bridges, tunnels… easy access;
Weapons, drugs,
Lawbreakers, thugs:
In short, new foes;
New secret foes that no one knows.
From popularity come woes.
 
Self-imposed expansion low.
Moderation is the answer,
Modesty the balancer
Of friendliness
And isolation.
 
From Popularity 4.17.2017
Our Times, Our Culture II; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin

Nothing is Sacred Anymore

I write everyday. This daily practice leads more and more to ignoring the past. Here is a poem – as newsworthy as ever, from one of my books published 2012 called Our Times, Our Culture which I happened to be going through this evening:
It’s page 162 of a 302 page book; was written in 1996.📢💭

Nothing Is Sacred Anymore

What’s sacred?
Internet is not, although it’s taking over.
Governments are not.
They’re only lots:
Persons without names;
Offices in frames.
What’s sacred?
Art’s unstable. So’s the food
And dreams meant to enhance the good;
Buildings meant to further faith –closed six days in a week.
You can’t get in
And so you sin.
If you’re the type who needs to speak
To God in such a place, you’re lost,
Tossed out into the street ‘til Sunday.

What is sacred?
Maybe nature’s underlying laws and change.
Maybe fire. (Not guns on the firing range)
But all the universes’ suns; first cause;
Laws of truth; you, me.
I’d hope that something’s sacred
Even though I cannot see it.
Something’s there that’s worth the prayer:
Something holy in the air.
Perhaps the problem’s in the word –
The nothing/something word absurd.
A thing with no- some- can’t possess
The ring of sacredness.
So why should I be disappointed,
Cynical or sad
When this world is an un-anointed
World, and going slowly, wholly mad.
Is sacred scared (of being sacred nowadays?)

Nothing Is Sacred Anymore 4.8.1996 Our Times, Our Culture; God Book; Arlene Corwin

The Doped Olympics

Every 4 years I post this, hoping that the message will come across – albeit lightheartedly.

                The Doped Olympics

 Why don’t they simply create a new branch

And call it the Doped Olympics?

By the laws of semantics

It soon would come into the language, legitimized:

Youth forgets past.

Soon the word would have lost its original shame,

While the name of the game

Would be guilt-free and blame-free,

And those who would qualify

Could have drug deliverance, muscles defined, bodies divine.

If they dropped dead at forty

At least they’d have entertained millions,

Fulfilled their ambitions,

Made lots of folk rich

And set records untold.

Let those few or many spend hours in training;

Let chemists develop concoctions so new

That the pole-vaulter flies,

The sprinter’s a jaguar,

The shot put is sent into orbits of space,

The long jumper jumps twenty meters

While men become fierce

And the women grow beards,

Which gives all of the chemists new projects to work on.

A yes to the dopey Doped Games.

The Doped Olympics12.2. 2004 revised 1.27.2016re-revised 7.25.2016 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Dangerous Place #1&2

A poem to show how the mind and thought develops and broadens over time.  In this case, four short years.

           A Dangerous Place #1

 

Not new; the world

A risky place:

Too many schools of thought;

Their base defective.

Schools, which in themselves are seeking

Thought that knows thought’s ever-rules.

 

Kipling’s twain which never meet;

Krishna’s castes all separate;

Towers fall on Babel Street.

Not new.

 

Impossibility out there:

Worlds of danger everywhere;

Dangers that we can’t escape

Except by staying put

Content with parsnips.

 A Dangerous Place 5.9.2004 Our Times, Our Culture; Birth, Death & In Between; Arlene Corwin

         A Dangerous Place #2

 

Two thousand four come/gone.

Two eighteen still anonymous.

Am I apocalyptic?

World the warmest since…forever.

Messiurs Putin, Trump and every nuclear dictator,

Arsenals as big as ever.

 

What we were afraid of then

Is now in multiples.

Viruses that won’t give up,

Fighting each development.

Small to middling large eruptions

Under, over, on the surface.

Coverings and dryings up;

Methane gas, folk that pass

Leaving matches in the grass;

Flarings unintentional.

My old bones susceptible

To substances and circumstance they never knew.

Nature duping us.

Boo hoo? Or ballyhoo?

Is there something new awaiting?

Something generating happiness,

Content with standing-stillness? Wellness?

Who can tell,

Things being as they are:

Not fine, with every sign

An indication

That we’re going in the wrong direction.

Sorry!

 A Dangerous Place #2 2.1.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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