Arlene Corwin Poetry

The thing is this: It’s always over.

As I read the guide

To films gone by I slip, I slide

Into a pondering: a star adored

Who won award;

Film from ninety-, sixty-, fifty-two

Which looks at you, but which

In real time, is through

Along with camera, set and crew.

And I am stuck in pity,

In the middle

Of the loss of nothing staying.

You can’t pin it down.

No pheromone this past-phenomenon.

You cannot say, “If only…”

Instinct kicks us in the shins

Reminding us of transience,

Yet of permanence.

We also long for permanence,

Glued, as we are, to past,

To film and star that passed

A long, long time ago.

Circling Round Reality;

Arlene Corwin