Daughters & Sons #3 1998

       Daughters & Sons

I’m so sad for the mother

That never became what she ought as a woman:

A person to gladden.

Never became what you faintly could call

Happy creature, the features

Of happiness missing in full.

So sad,

And I don’t fully tumble to layered grief why.

Is it that she will die,

Her future a flyby

Without any chance on this planet for joy?

That some of her blood runs inside of my veins,

And gene-derived thoughts in my brain

Are connected to some of her pains?

Of all the denatured, the tortured

I feel a sadness directed at one.

Is it guilt?

Is there something I just haven’t done?

How much mother’s keeper

Are daughters and sons?

I’m so sad.

©Daughters & Sons 98.1.1

Circling Round Woman; Love Relationships; Pure Nakedness; Mother Book;

Arlene Corwin

Daughters & Sons #2 1998

      Daughters & Sons

I’m so sad for the mother

T hat never became what she ought

As a woman:

A person

To gladden her realm;

Never became what you faintly could call

Happy creature,

The features of happiness missing in full.

I’m so sad,

And I don’t fully tumble to layered grief why.

Is it that she will die,

Her future become a flyby

Without any chance on this planet for joy?

That some of her blood runs inside of my veins,

And some gene-derived thought in my brain

Is connected to some of her pains?

Of all the denatured, the tortured

I feel my sadness directed at one.

Is it guilt?

Is there something I just haven’t done?

How much mother’s keeper

Should daughters and sons…?

I’m so sad.

©Daughters & Sons 98.1.1 version2

Circling Round Woman; Love Relationships; Pure Nakedness; Mother Book;

Arlene Corwin

Daughter (And Son) 1998

Daughter (And Son)

I’m so sad for the mother

That never became what she ought as a woman:

A person to gladden,

Never become happy creature,

All features of zest an alloy.

So sad. I don’t fully tumble to why:

Is it that she will die, the future a fly by?

A missed-out-on chance-on-this-planet for joy?

That some of her blood runs inside of my veins,

And gene-derived thoughts in my brain

Are connected to some of her pains?

 

Of unfulfilled lovelies and lonelies, there’s one

Who collects darkest thought.

Is there something that I haven’t done

That I ought?

Am I doing the least: daughter/beast?

How much mother’s keeper is daughter (and son)?

©Daughter (And Son) 98.1.1

Circling Round Woman; Love Relationships; Pure Nakedness; Mother Book;

Arlene Corwin

I Cannot Stand To See You There 1990 1993

        I Cannot Stand To See You There: A Temporary Aberration

I cannot stand to see you there.

I cannot stand to see your face.

A person always in despair

Is hard to bear, so hard to bear.

And scarcely easier the space:

The place you take of pasty waste.

I cannot stand to hear your voice –

Opinionated New York voice:

That mass of uninformed ideas

Expressed unasked; that mass of fears

And vulgar views; contempt, disdain

For other views, and plainly

Those with godly hues.

I cannot stand to hear you speak.

Each talk demands one turn one’s cheek.

You turn all conversation round

To talk about yourself instead.

You run all sound ideas to ground:

You’ve never read a book.

And drag about that sad, filled brain.

You’re seldom cheerful. You complain.

You alternate complain/demand/

Complaint again, your days like sand.

Your stays in bed are days in bed.

You lie about, get up to pee.

You think your thoughts in secrecy.

There’s nothing in you to agree.

Black’s always white. Simplicity

Has left you. Stiff, probably

A long, long time ago there was

A flexible persona there;

A dare I say it, vulnerable child bare.

But now the openness is less.

How silly of me to suggest

An open word like openness.

It’s angst to see you at the door,

And dull to fix your meals, for

There’s no appreciation seen,

Just an indifference to what’s been.

A candle or a flower wasted,

Fine, brewed coffee hardly tasted.

Instant is as good to you.

Why bother, when it’s all the same?

A stew, a brew – just change the name.

As for dinner conversation:

Cynical and silly words,

Repeated, hackneyed little turds;

Dogmatic, slanted, un-thought through;

Self-centered clichés only you

Can see.

If only you could trust in folk.

You simply can-, will not agree

With him or her, or them or me

About the slightest, lightest joke.

You never get the point!

Each issue, like a tissue crumpled,

Torn de-valued, thrown away.

Where the hell’s your sense of play?

Contentious always, and yet yellow,

Formula for living hell, you

Make our dining times an effort,

Pleasant conversation, indigestible sensation.

When it comes to giving credit,

You have done it, seen it, said it.

Since your every word gives pain,

I can’t stand you near again.

If only you’d hold in those good

Suggestions: food,

Ideas, including portions I should cook,

How the size itself should look.

I think, until the day we die,

I will try and cry and sigh. You’ll vie.

Have all those meaningless days’ “Why?”

And I’ll just have to learn to try

That bit more to interpret

Your behavior as a debt

That I must pay in order that this small disjointed,

Small dis-joy-nted soul gets whole.

But God, it’s hard to be a loving, peaceful child

To one whose conflicts drive me wild,

Whose every statement gets me riled,

Whose thinking circles around ‘me’.Blindness or stupidity?

You interrupt and never listen,

Never shift from a position.

Whether stated or negated

Every tiny point’s negated,

Almost hated, never sated.

Worst of all,

one feels so sorryFor a woman of some charm.

Still, I’d like to break your arm

For marching, army-like upon

Your daughter and your murdered son.

You never hesitate, you tank!

How I’d love a mom to thank.

How I’d love to thank you but

To be quite frank, I can’t. The hurt

Is much too much twixt twisted you

And direct me. A blindness or stupidity?

An eg-or-eccentricity?

Writing it, is therapy,

A never-ending poetry.

I’ll have to fight to not re-write

(Which could go on indefinitely )

Playing the sage,

Expressing innocent and guilty rage.

This poem has got to stop,

Attention turning to my pop,

My dear Alzheimer losing dad,

The dad who’s losing all he had.

Besides, the anger’s petered out,

So why more meter?

Of course, there are some signs of change,

The range minute and bound to teeter.

Any change is better

Than that set, depressive crater.

Dare I say, it’s bound to be

Resolved one day,

In poetry

Or not.

 

©I Cannot Stand To See You There 93.6.20/90.12.21

Love Relationships; Pure Nakedness; Mother Book;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reflections On A Solitary Mother 1992

                 Reflections On A Solitary MotherEveryone has a self to go into.

Why make a thing of being alone?

Why feel such pities for those that grow old

If inside is gold:

Abandonment’s gold,

Living concealed a wellspring un-sensed.

A treasure, pleasure black-holed independence.

 

Everyone has a self to go into.

Self is a space, the space-ship and crew

Using the thing we call time as a frame,

Using a body that self has to tame,

Using the mind that gives every self name:

Everyone’s self an Olympiad flame.

 

A self to go into:

People distract.

Gossiping comfort, crying the blues,

Seeing the family and reading the news.

The telephone company there to pretend

Most unsuccessfully, it’s your best friend.

 

 

Everyone has a self to go into:

Self the best friend, end and kin.

Joy in that lobby, Self the self’s hobby.

The longer the sojourn, the more time goes by –

Quality time, not pie-in-the-sky;

Conditioning time; true cosmic college;

Actively living, enforcing real knowledge.

Self is the company everyone misses.

 

It’s easy to feel abandoned in kisses.

Alone in a crowd… they dwell in apartments,

In every big city’s island compartments

Without ever getting the feeling of staying inside,

Where the staying and praying and saying

Become an emulsion of patience

And love –

Where comfort is what days consist of:

The self they go into.

©Reflections On A Solitary Mother 92.8.17

Love Relationships; Mother Book;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

Taking Care Of Mother 2007

           Taking Care Of Mother

See it as a phase.

See it as ‘this too shall pass’,

Duration not an always…

See it as a passing whose appearance

Is a going on while standing still,

With feelings sandwiched in between.

See the phone call in the night

When dream holds tight in culmination,

As an early morning outing,

Where you have to feed the kids and dog,

And get away;

A little bit of robot

With your points of view, emotions too,

Tucked tidily inside your shoebox.

Taking care of mother days

Is action not on your behalf, but hers.

©Taking Care Of Mother 07.1.8

Love Relationships; Mother Book;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

Sister In-Law 2007

           Sister In-Law

Caretaker her essence:

Mother ninety-three,

Grand-daughter, three – about,

Two adult sons and husband,

Ailing aunt, now gone,

And on and on.

I don’t know two like that!

Born to wash an aging skin,

Break in a baby to existence;

What comes out at either end,

There’s no repulsion, fear or sloth –

She’s there to do whatever…

What is needed, when it’s needed,

Feeding tired souls and bodies.

I’m inspired.

She, all simple goodness, if you will.

It’s free.

I’m lucky to be witness.

©Sister In-Law 07.4.10

Special People Special Occasions;

Love Relationships;

Mother Book;

Swedish Book;

Arlene Corwin

Revised View Of My Parents 1996 2007

              Revised View Of My Parents

A shorthand that I understand,

Essential for my peace of mind:

No more at war with mother’s dark, illogic mind,

No more preferring daddy’s kind

But weak, artistic presence, pleasantries.

Now, today, with daddy clearly

On his way, and mother nearly mad with sadness,

Locked in bed and impotent to run and help,

She eighty-four, he eighty-seven – at death’s door,

Three thousand miles away, derangement his finale.

Now that I know Arlene a bit,

The strengths and tendencies that show,

And some that don’t, I wish to forfeit

All the old complaints and sufferings,

Replacing them with grateful yea’s

For useful gifts and graceful traits,

(The freebees that I took for granted

Or assumed were shaped by ways

Of don’t know what.)

I know now never could have been

If mother had not been exactly

Who she was, and dad the same –

And that does not include my name.

View revised, not over-, undersized,

I’ve re-evaluated mom and dad.

It’s time now to apologize

For thoughts unkind: thoughts just plain bad,

Too analytical and double bound –

A blind unquestioning and double-binding paradox

That locks the brain into the box in which it runs around;

To reach the point where one no longer

Alternates between the passive and aggressive

To feel briefly stronger…

Gone to error’s happy land, left free of frenzied cleft.

Since the honeycomb of home is love,

And all roads lead to Rome,

It is love’s inauguration that has changed my view.

My children, will you need that too?

I do expect you will.

©Revised View Of My Parents 96.8.27.revised 07.4.6

Love Relationships; Mother Book; Pure Nakedness;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

Mother Muse 2007

                Mother Muse

All the time I sit

Watching the cockatiel,

Brain is working, knitting quiet.

And I think…Mother muse,

The need to not appreciate, when young,

The mother’s use,

But take her role as given.

Need that grows, inverts, clings, bringing close

A willingness to trace and hold to.

Daughter-old, the Mother muse shows up

To clinch the certainty of passage;

Treasures that one only knows with age:

The DNA and other linkage

To transfuse the chain to come.

©Mother Muse 07.4.5

Mother Book; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative;

Arlene Corwin

Mother In-Law 2007

             Mother In-law

Has it been twenty-four

Daughter in-law years?

She was plump then –

Face a rosy, Swedish skin.

Always prone to valleyed hills,

One of the first to lean on pills,

She raised her four.

The best of mothers:

Giving and uncritical.

Ninety-three.

One holds back tears

As time/space feeling disappears –

When time and home and neighborhood,

Recounting conversations, mood

Was always of the essence.

Twenty-four short years before

Her plumpness ran across the streets, up stairs,

Saw nature’s beauty everywhere,

Bleached, washed and cleaned each corner…

One is left a mourner,

Mourning, like Siddhartha

For the rounds of life.

©Mother In-law 07.4.10

Love Relationships; Special People Special Occasions;

Birth, Death & In Between; Mother Book;

Arlene Corwin

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: