Things Are Dying Off 1997

 

 

      Things Are Dying Off

Things are dying off.

I go outside to water the

Tomatoes, and I notice that

The other plants, once juicy green

Are starting to de-clothe,

And I’m surprised.

It’s happened in a week,

When all my expectations speak

Of succulence: greens, mauves and blue.

I go outside and they’re all through,

Save one or two who’ll thrive,

Survive the snow –

And I’m surprised at my surprise,

My lack of observation.

Surely there are signs to read

That speak for all creation.

If I sharpened all my senses,

I would notice – way ahead –

When nature’s fruitfulness was done,

Taking death without surprise,

Which knack alone

Would make me wise.

But I’m still far away from that.

 

*

*written three days after the death of Princess Diana.

did I mean Di-ing off?

©

 

Things Are Dying Off 97.9.2Birth, Death & In Between; Circling Round Nature;

Arlene Corwin

There Is No Weather Out In Space 1997

 

      There Is No Weather Out In Space

There is no weather out in space.

It’s we, exposed to weather’s chess

Who sense the wrath of God;

Who sense, as well, the links between

The actions of the marketplace -all interlaced

With poisoned prayer. Birds of a feather

Flock together.

Faction fighting, market’s wad;

Goods and pelf that sink the trodden

While the well-insured can tinker

With the systems; nescience –

In and out the genes –

Greed’s inherent origins,

Corrupts the clime:

Volcanic blowouts, untimed rains,

Melting floes, hurricanes;

The brain of God the paradigm:

Peace unmotioned;

Nature, twin-fraternal; oceaned,

Churning, whirling, sucking.

 

Whether weather runs amok

Depends on Good and nature’s mood.

Man, the calculating, shrewd,

Crafts legislature

Forging crooked ways to food

And shelter; almost lewd;

By any godly standards crude.

Man, who works at life towards death;

Seeking love – life’s shibboleth;

While all above the universe,

And hint – of uncapricious grace –

That there’s no weather out in space.

©

 

There’s No Weather Out In Space 97.11.25Nature Of & In Reality; Our Times, Our Culture;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wishy-Washy Visions That Turn Into Something Real 1997

 

      The Wishy-Washy Visions That Turn Into Something Real

There’s nothing abstract in my tone.

I’m concrete right down to my shoe –

(The other sole, the leather one).

Yet, I’ve known ecstasy and certainty

And living truth;

And all the wishy-washy visions

That expressed themselves in youth

Have concretized inside the inner eye of order,

Logic’s logic lodged beyond:

Vision, not decision

Fixing acts concrete as feet.

Envisioned roads lead to a street,

Its inner dream, the life complete,

Where wishy-washy visions,

Clarified, solidified and purified,

Reach upwards the whole time,

Unseen

It projection primeWhere visions have their home.

©

 

The Wishy-Washy Visions That Turn Into Something Real 97.12.4Nature Of & In Reality; To The Child Mystic; A Sense Of The Ridiculous;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

The Songbird 1997

 

     The Songbird

I heard a singer and was moved,

Which proves not much.

We’re touched by mediocrity,

The second-rate,

The bait of glamour.

Hers was honesty,

Simplicity dug deep in skill.

Talent and ability.

Oh, so good, voice many-hued.

Interpretation, even the

Pronunciation, woven in

The loveliness.

A jazz parfait: a marmalade,

Jade luminesence

Honesty, simplicity,

Substance in each nicety;

 

Who wouldn’t want to sing so well,

That those who heard would feel compelled

To tell the world what you exude

Though under-known and undervalued?

(such a gift might give me hubris where, too satisfied,

I’d have to watch for sins of pride.)

For now, there’s happiness-near-bliss,

Aesthetic saturation

Having heard this songbird sing.*

©

 

The Songbird 97.10.4Special People, Special Occasions; Vaguely About Music;

Arlene Corwin

* Sue Raney

 

 

The Practice 1997

 

      The Practice

A headstand everyday;

A line or two or three or four;

A letter, poem, a short essay;

A lyric learned, a song, a chord;

A meal made, some panties washed,

A mantra said. Negation quashed.

Anything to squash the guilt

That builds from projects still undone,

Objectives hardly yet begun

From duties felt and fears that tilt

At weaknesses of mind that push

And rush at mind; that build up stress

Forge gaps in mind-access.

Any way to use the time,

To find the balance:

Spontaneity and planning,

Creativity and plotting;

Habit, too much energy or plodding.

Any way to squelch the spree;

Anxiety opaque as fog.

 

Ok, to headstands, sit-ups

Now I’ve learned a bit

About the body’s load,

Its downhill road.

Ok, the letter to a friend

Now that some friends have met their end.

Ok, to poem that halts the drain

Of healthy enzymes from the brain

Now that I’ve seen what brain can do

When cells have shrunk. It could be you.

Ok, to song sung everyday,

To keep at bay the wobbling note

That comes from age and unused throat.

And when there’s silence in the bed,

Ok, to mantras in the head.

To practice is the practice.

©

 

The Practice 97.4.6Defiant Doggerel; Definitely Didactic; I Is Always You Is We;

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; Vaguely About Music;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

The Nicer Sides Of Being Ignored 1997

 

     The Nicer Sides Of Being Ignored

He doesn’t see I’ve cut my hair

A little or a lot. That’s good!

Doesn’t see I’ve changed mascara.

That’s exactly as it should be

After thirteen years – the married kind:

Years diffuse and years refined.

Years you get a bit ‘home blind’.

That’s good!

I say, ‘Knock wood!’

It’s freedom to go read

Without the weight of feeling needed.

Films depicting torrid love,

Find ignore-ance a horrid love.

Listen, it is bliss

Not to be noticed, seen or missed.

He doesn’t notice my new lines –

Or if he does, he doesn’t say.

And I am sensitive to signs

Of unrequited love-gone-gray,

And they’re not there.

I feel adored.

It’s perfect to be so ignored.

©

 

The Nicer Sides Of Being Ignored 97.3.8Circling Round Woman; Love Relationships; Circling Round Vanities; Revelations Big & Small;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

The Long, Long Sundays Facing Time version#2 1997

 

      The Long, Long Sundays Facing Time

“Sundays are so long!”

It’s time again. It’s Time again.

My mother in-law loathes that time.

Unsolvable and cloudy time;

Time shrouded in ennui so

Deep, she is a stagnant dynamo,

Helplessness so stamped on

Soul that all the day is drab –

No matter what the sun.

What is this ‘time’ interpretation

If not bad translation straight from cell to day, the stab

At self-enjoyment or employment

Minimized to sleeping, waking,

Cooking, eating, making

Number one and number two;

TV, phoning: things to do.

Sundays are so long –

Shortened by a family visit.

Otherwise it’s sitting at the window.

Street that stands outside the house

Stands for six days in the week.

Families, drunks; the closet

Hours that dose the bleak

With meaning masked inside.

Mother in-law, eighty-three –

A you, a me.

It isn’t just to hide from ticking time which tocks outside

But lives inside, but baring breast to morning

Join the ripple in the stream

Where standing still, you never feel

The river’s ripple twice the same:

Infinity within that frame.

The drawn out sitting, pained and bare,

Automizing childhood prayer

Stales, when you fail to square off

With the long, long Sundays facing time.

©

 

The Long, Long Sundays Facing Time 97.8.24Our Times, Our Culture; Nature Of & In Reality; Time; Swedish Book; Small Stories; Special People, Special Occasions; 

Arlene Corwin

 

The Long, Long Sundays Facing Time 1997

                The Long, Long Sundays Facing Time

“Sundays are so long!”

It’s time again.

It’s Time again.

My mother in-law loathes that time;

Unsolvable and cloudy time;

Time shrouded in ennui so deep

She weeps; a stagnant dynamo.

Helplessness so stamped upon

Her soul that all the day is drab,

And that, no matter what the sun.

What is this time if not translation,

Reason’s weak interpretation

Straight from cell to day, the stab

At self-enjoyment and employment

Dulled to waking,

Cooking, eating, sitting making

Number one and number two;

Viewing, phoning: things to do.

The Sundays are so long,

Street that stands outside the house

Stands for six days in the week.

Families, drunks are sights that that dose

Existence bleak

With meaning that eludes her.

Mother in-law, eighty three

Could be me.

To hide from time-which-lies outside,

Which-lies-inside, not baring breast

To morning, joining ripples in the stream,

Where standing still you never feel

The river’s ripple twice the same,

Infinity within that frame,

Makes automizing the Lord’s Prayer

Bare, pale,

A jail of long, long Sundays doing time.

©The Long, Long Sundays Facing Time 97.8.24/03.11.23

Our Times, Our Culture; Special People, Special Occasions; Swedish Book;

Small Stories Book;

Arlene Corwin

 

Something I Must Say, My Friend 1997

      Something I Must Say, My Friend

There’s something I must say, my friend.

To help keep pain at bay, my friend.

Specific issues, such as:

You are fifty two,

He eighteen years your junior.

You with temper that keeps sending him away

Each second day,

And he still coming ‘round and begging

Your forgiveness, yet not giving

Up the woman he resides with, egging

On still further tantrums, sorrows.

 

Wild love on bed and floor,

Which only makes you want him more,

Binds you both, intense orgasms

Notwithstanding, giant chasms

Isolating,

Love a box of tissues:

Fragile, separate and frail.

What stale tomorrows lie in store?

 

Specific issues:

Universal scope and belly.

So I’m dressing them in hope,

Undressing and addressing problems

In the name of sexes all,

Yours not a small

And airy-fairy love affair.

 

The particular

Directs the universal.

 

Love shared, extra-curricular, his need;

Her needs: the patterns set before.

 

Don’t take offense,

Here is a chance

To make you think again –

Help inward- turn towards god-knows- when

To lead acumen to the surface.

©Something I Must Say, My Friend 97.3.26

Love Relationships; Circling round Eros;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

Slow Learner 1997

      Slow Learner

Learning to set the digital watch,

Program the clock on the video gadget,

Bake a tinned loaf instead of the catch-all

Type rolls that I’ve learned not to botch,

Put plugs into backs, fronts of speakers, electric

Piano, the microphones – almost, me too.

I’m sure there’s a wire that I must eschew –

A button or switch I’ve not found,

Crews or jacks I’ve forgotten to ground,

Knobs which kill if they’re touched.

I’m not a commuter but live in a hive,

Owning computer, not able to drive.

I’m utterly out of the mainstream of things

One ought to be gathering under one’s wings;

A reincarnation of someone

Who lived in a time when the water wheel ruled,

And horses and feet were the kings of the road –

Or else I’m resistant and will not be schooled –

A dullard with neither the talent nor code

To tune into the 20th century’s new hallowed

Icons, which bode ill or well –

I can’t tell, being just a bit yellow,

A rather deep fellow

But very slow learner and mademoiselle.

©Slow Learner 97.9.9

I Is Always You Is We; Pure Nakedness; A Sense Of The Ridiculous;

Arlene Corwin

 

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