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.
To The Child Mystic;
Arlene Corwin
26 Mar 2009 Leave a comment
in 1959, to the child mystic Tags: 1959, looking for truth, mystics
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.
To The Child Mystic;
Arlene Corwin
26 Mar 2009 Leave a comment
in 1959, a sense of the ridiculous, our times our culture Tags: 1959, our times our culture, psychoanalysis
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
26 Mar 2009 Leave a comment
in 1959, a sense of the ridiculous, to the child mystic Tags: 1959, awakening, illusion, life
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
15 Nov 2008 Leave a comment
in 1959, a sense of the ridiculous, our times our culture Tags: 1959, a sense of the ridiculous, our times our culture
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
13 Nov 2008 Leave a comment
in 1959, a sense of the ridiculous, to the child mystic Tags: 1959, a sense of the ridiculous, the mystical state, to the child mystic
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