Thinking In The Sun

           Thinking In The Sun

Preoccupied with origins and ends,

Our real-life friends –

One knows that what is left is means: the present tense –

Past gone, what lies ahead not yet in sight’s attendance. 

The rest belongs to speculation.

Reasoning has limits.

Also left: the intellect and character,

Not neglecting chance or grace;

Who gets what, does what, makes choices that

Put two and two together to get four – or not. 

Sitting here out in the sun

What better theme to think upon,

The senses dong what they do,

Interpreted by you-know-who:

Me, you.

 The eye sees change [wind blowing grass].

The ear hears wind [that’s blowing grass].

The arm feels sun [that’s growing grass].

The brain sees all as change.

 Where is the toot, toot of an absolute?

One would recruit an absolute

To make things stable

If one could/were only able.

 So one sits awaiting, cogitating,

Meditating, celebrating one’s existence,

Hoping, praying it’s not nonsense

In the end,

As its end,

At the end.

Thinking In The Sun 4.22.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Nature Of & In Reality; Birth Death & In Between III; Arlene Corwin

Poetry Is My Means

I’m always trying to figure out why I go back time and again to writing poetry.  It’s such a strange phenomenon.  Sometimes, like now, I’m allowed a glint.

      Poetry Is My Means

Poetry is my means:

To thinking out a thought;

To finding more about myself;

To analyzing good and bad:

To making tail or head

Of circumstance.

 

Poetry helps me define,

Refine,

Become a finer person,                

Binding my persona.

 

So many things I did not know

Of which I had not one iota

Of ability to see:

The sexy, silly, plus the willy-nilly

Miracle of mind,

Its mysteries revealing hints

And hinting at the revelations

Which belong to geniuses

And saints:

Everything I ain’t.

In learning and forgiving             

Poetry is everything a giving gift

Can give.

Poetry Is My Means 4.15.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative III; Revelations Big & Small; Arlene Corwin

 

I Love The Discipline…

               I Love The Discipline…

 

I love the discipline of form and meters.

Crummy, yummy twitterings

To turn a base, base/superficial

Into something interstitially aesthetic, helpful.

What it is that gives this gift I’ll never know,

But there it is – a discipline addictive;

A dictation from below;

Not just adding to an increase in IQ,

Nor the storehouse of expressing,

Nor of word when crossword puzzling;

No, a serendipity with aspects heavenly.

A guzzling from an endless well of secret knowledge,

Sacred knowledge for the few.

But earthy too.

 

Anyway, as we of poet’s tree like saying,

When you find an impulse that you can’t resist,

Don’t, you hear, anti-resist,

But kissed by It

Continue till the whole caboodle* springs your noodle**

And the lights go out.

I Love The Discipline…4.13.2018 The Processes; Creative, Thinking, Meditative III, Arlene Corwin

*caboodle |kəˈboōdl| (also kaboodle)

noun (in phrase the whole caboodle or the whole kit and caboodle) informal

the whole number or quantity of people or things in question.

ORIGIN mid 19th cent. (originally U.S.): perhaps from the phrase kit and boodle, in the same sense (see kit 1 , boodle ).

** noodle 2

noun informal

a stupid or silly person.

  • a person’s head.

New Oxford American Dictionary

 

 

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