On Reading Vivekananda 1959

       On Reading Vivekananda

I talk but say nothing.

I’m drugged,

No light.

I write, still nothing:

No in-

No sight.

Frisky in babydom,

Frantic in youth,

Frenetic in aging

Are we without truth.

©On Reading Vivekananda 54? 59?

To The Child Mystic;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

Impulsion 1959

           Impulsion

My brand new psychoanalyst agreed.

I could tell as he sat smoking in his tweed.

I’d found someone who understood my need.

Yes, I’d found someone , someone indeed.

My monologue was you and our affair;

The reason, as you know, why I was there.

I put aside my pride (I even cried).

As last, my silent analyst replied:

“You’ve got impulsion.

In the jargon of my colleague, Doctor Dyber G..Enetic,

It’s pituadrenalogic, in its early form kinetic.

Symptomatic is that hilo-satisfactatory pain

Pushing firmly, gently, always on the amatory brain.

But a functional disorder is not measurably plain –

So relax and we will see what we can do.

It’s possible there’s nothing wrong with you.”

My fifty minute hour flew

At twenty dollars per.

Parenthetically, I pay him less

Than all the rest, I’m sure.

Left the office, said “Goodbye, nurse.”

Reached the door and found my purse.

Took an Equanil to calm me down

And calmly feeling worse,

Took a Deximil to pick me up,

A stick of gum and nursed a cigarette.

How did it start?

Where is the cause now?

I guess I’ll have to blame it one my youth.

My applecart is applesauce now,

And my actions are neurotically uncouth.

I’ve got impulsion,

I’m very glad it’s got a name.

Now I can play my little game

Of poisons darts blown at your little picture frame.

I feel so stylish.

I feel so chic.

I’ve got impulsion.

©Impulsion 59.3.20

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Our Times, Our Culture;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

First Poem Of All 1959

         First Poem Of All

Something’s happening inside;

I think I’ve just died.

I’m going home to see.

Feeling is unreasoned,

Rather like unseasoned squash,

Or a ghastly recipe:

To three cups salt add four grams goulash.

Disinterested, uncontrolled field of flounces

Sloshes like a slattern in the rain;

Inane pattern

Of windrowed plain.

The definition of cumulus cloud:

Abraham Lincoln, looking so proud

Becomes a dog. Preposterous!

So I’ve died without a fuss,

For life plus I equals feeling, mood,

And all is verisimilitude.

©First Poem Of All 59.10

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; To The Child Mystic;

Arlene Corwin

Impulsion 1959

               Impulsion

My brand new psychoanalyst agreed.

I could tell as he sat smoking in his tweed.

I’d found someone who understood my need.

Yes, I’d found someone , someone indeed.

My monologue was you and our affair;

The reason, as you know, why I was there.

I put aside my pride (I even cried).

As last, my silent analyst replied:

“You’ve got impulsion.

In the jargon of my colleague, Doctor Dyber G..Enetic,

It’s pituadrenalogic, in its early form kinetic.

Symptomatic is that hilo-satisfactatory pain

Pushing firmly, gently, always on the amatory brain.

But a functional disorder is not measurably plain –

So relax and we will see what we can do.

It’s possible there’s nothing wrong with you.”

My fifty minute hour flew

At twenty dollars per.

Parenthetically, I pay him less

Than all the rest, I’m sure.

Left the office, said “Goodbye, nurse.”

Reached the door and found my purse.

Took an Equanil to calm me down

And calmly feeling worse,

Took a Deximil to pick me up,

A stick of gum and nursed a cigarette.

How did it start?

Where is the cause now?

I guess I’ll have to blame it one my youth.

My applecart is applesauce now,

And my actions are neurotically uncouth.

I’ve got impulsion,

I’m very glad it’s got a name.

Now I can play my little game

Of poisons darts blown at your little picture frame.

I feel so stylish.

I feel so chic.

I’ve got impulsion.

©Impulsion 59.3.20

A Sense Of The Ridiculous;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

Poem 1959 (first poem in the mystical state)

       Poem (first poem in the mystical state)

Something’s happening inside;

I think I’ve just died.

I’m going home to see.

Feeling is unreasoned,

Rather like unseasoned squash,

Or a ghastly recipe:

To three cups salt add four grams goulash.

Disinterested, uncontrolled field of flounces

Sloshes like a slattern in the rain;

Inane pattern

Of windrowed plain.

The definition of cumulus cloud:

Abraham Lincoln, looking so proud

Becomes a dog. Preposterous!

So I’ve died without a fuss,

For life plus I equals feeling, mood,

And all is verisimilitude.

©First Poem In The Mystical State 59.10

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; To The Child Mystic;

Arlene Corwin

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