Thinking Clearly

 

I’m simply trying

To think clearly,

Times and destiny against me.

 

Not alone, it is we all.

A world of digits and addictions,

New temptations:

‘Lead me not into temptation…’.

 

Tiny hippocampus shrinking even more than ever,

It’s an effort,

I admit.

A part of words, a part of worlds

Inside a frame that gilds the lily,

Curls around reality

Like smoke from chimney.

 

Headlines chronically bad,

Chronicles of planetary sadness –

World of digits,

World on fire,

World that cultivates desire,

It is all the harder to think clearly

And sincerely:

Ergo, I

Am trying as a consequence,

To change the sequence

And think plainly, deeply,

Patently, indubitably

Clearly.

Thinking Clearly 6.18.2017

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

Arlene Corwin

 

Internet Down

           Internet Down
My Internet’s been downed
Like copters in the movie
Black Hawk Down. Not really.
A childish melodrama that speaks
Of need and weakness.
The company that charges
For the privilege of barging into planetary life
Has sold itself to one – more rich and more far-reaching.
Dependent wretch,
I’ll have to pay the higher rates. They hold the reins.

There being glitches in the starting up.
This gap a slap in Arlene’s face,
But missing Wikipedia and mail,
I’ve let them nail me.
Waiting for the Flash drive USB
To come, but gosh and golly,
It’s a four-day holiday.
The post has lost more days
(the post is slow in any case).
The therapy?
I’ve had to muse on facelessness and vanity.

A week of absence
From the Web-based
Superhighway cyberspace,
Digitally online
Will be fine –
A rest from showing off the ego;
A real place in real space;
One’s fancied expectations
Where you know deep down
That not one of the bodies out there
Really care,
But you.


Internet Down 6.4.2017
Small Stories; Circling Round Reality; Pure Nakedness; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin

A Problem And A Blessing

A Problem And A Blessing

 

It’s a problem and a blessing;

I never do the same thing twice.

My omelets, cookies, ice cream –

Never twinned and absolutely never thrice.

My husband says, “That dish was consummate,

The best I ever ate…you must, must imitate it!

Why not write it down”.

And there’s my limit.

Always acting in the moment,

Home ingredients at hand,

Forced to recreate a dish

That will not taste of sand,

That may or may not turn out grand;

A failure or success – there’s no predicting,

But who cares!

My brain enjoys the dare,

For dare it is,

And there it is,

The blessing.

 

The problem?

Codes of norm, jazz (my profession), daily dressing;

Not recalled, created by improvisational necessity

Anew;

New strains, all things thought through

As if they’d never been.

What do you do?

And how?

 

A Problem And A Blessing 5.12.2017

Pure Nakedness;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

The Making Of Perfect Love

     The Making Of Perfect Love

The sex is simple.

Though there’s pattern, never boring.

Feeling new, e’en better every time.

How can that be?

The years have passed the ‘sell by’ date,

And one knows couples who

Are either bored to death or hate

The touch, approach,

Who douche

Just to escape the loathing

(even some who wear their clothing

into bed).

 

But with us, we focus.

Simple, the affection real,

Start so gradual

It’s hardly recognizable as such.

As for the finish,

Since there never was a start,

It sometimes has no end,

Just petering from aged tiredness

With never a dissatisfaction,

Life and day continuing

In the most natural of ways.

 

The Making of Perfect Love 5.9.2017

Circling Round Eros II; Pure Nakedness, Circling Round Aging; Love Relationships II;

Arlene Corwin

Coney Island

     Who ever thought of it as the peninsula it is. Inhabited by native Americans and called Narrioch, a ” land without shadows”, “always in the light”, its beaches facing south and ‘always in the light; a “point” or “corner of the land”. Come 1600’s and it’s Dutch bought for a gun, a blanket and a kettle.     Also called Coninen Island, then Coney Hook, then maybe Conyn Eylandt, maybe even Konah, even Colman after John Coleman, slain by the natives 1609.

Wikipedia

So I write about my Coney, phony, and for me my lonely island.

Land of rides and fun’s placations,

First such park for work vacations.

Frankfurters with kraut and mustard,

Frozen custard, chocolate syrup on the top.

Brooklyniters, Jackson Heighters…New York City’s pop…ulation

Come by subway all that way.

(Who had a car? Everything and place was far,

Every stranger from a land they landed from –

At least their dads or moms or grand or great-grand dads and moms:

Generation and the nation of the 20’s 30’s, 40’s).

Cotton candy, candied apples sweet outside, sour within.

Who thought of sugar then?

Who thought of staying thin?

Miles and miles of sand – all gray.

Cold Atlantic blocks away.

Parachute ride, new and daring.

Arlene Nover, longing, raring.

Merry-go-round wan and childish,

She, wildishly shy, tongue-tied,

Watched by grownups there not sharing any wooden horse beside

Which could have turned the ride

To fun

No parent un-derstood.

Clear and queer these memories.

Showing up spontaneously.

Sequences squeezed out of fate

Some seventy years later – late.

Coney Island 5.1.2017

Pure Nakedness;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

Hypocrisy Confessed

     Hypocrisy Confessed

There are those times

When I enjoy

A murdered leg

Or rib

Or thigh.

I

Call it steak

To make

Myself

Feel comfortable,

The rumblings of the mind assuaged.

Most of the time,

Prime hungry, up to eating like a horse,

I don’t eat cow (of course not horse),

But making food

Not rude or vulgar,

I, non-fake and non-pretender

Eat my beans, my reds and greens

With appetite.

No bright, slight, sprite

I eat my peas,

My eggs and cheese,

My pasta à la Genovese

Well pleased as punch,

Needing no med. rare for lunch.

But then those times…

Oy, oy those times!

Ashamed,

Soul feeling maimed,

Smell of sweet, soy, garlic-y meat

I fall

To ribs [deceitful] call.

Hypocrisy Confessed 4.25.2017

A Sense Of Ridiculous II;

Arlene Corwin

 

I’m Lucky

    I’m Lucky

I’m lucky.

I don’t have to earn my living as a poet.

But I have to write it.

 

No reward to energize,

No prize,

No monetary chance for status,

Fame the same;

A nano-chance to spread my name.

And yet, and yet,

Out of the air

Ideas occur.

And while I sit or lie or stand

Wholly unplanned,

Forced, driven

Structure, meter as yet hidden –

To seek pad and pen

With no predicting what and when

Will come to mind,

Inside the thing,

Inside the process of the writing.

 

It is as if some muse takes over

Former Arlene Faith Nover,

Improvising from said air

Ideas she never knew were there.

What could be luckier?

Silly couplets, sometimes deep,

Forms arriving from the beep of spontaneity.

How lucky can one be!

 

I’m Lucky 4.12.2017

Pure Nakedness; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Revelations Big & Small;

Arlene Corwin

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