Mid- Night Nonsense

It’s good to start from nowhere
In  particular,
Let it grow,
Intuition’s urging knowing.
The trick is to keep going -
That’s the hard part.

4 a.m. husband asleep,
And like a twelve year old, I creep
Under the quilt.
With minor guilt, pad, pen in hand,
Keyring flashlight, writing,
Fighting hard to stay awake
For art’s sake.

There’s no other explanation,
So amusing is the situation.
There will be continuation -
Or, as Arnold coined,
“I’ll be back”… joined to you
Post breakfast, and as promised.
Not just brain but body too,
Then we’ll see if this needs closure
On exposure to the light.
As for now, goodnight, goodnight!

Mid- Night Nonsense 9.16.2020 Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin

Tired of..

Housewives tire repeatedly
Of empty answers,
Inattention, the cliché
She must live with day to day.

Oft, one has a sneaky feeling
That a partnership stops growing
When the moments turn to echoing.
Repetitious, detrimental,
Present and habitual,
Diluting conversation’s scope:
Buddy stripped to muddy-ship.

What to do to stave off ruin?
Patience? Duty?  Contribution?
Temperament or character
Of either and/or partner
With the union a rehearsal
Without thought of a reversal?

Can one remedy a situation
Without simulating stimulation?
How,
       when there is love, a vow?

Self-understanding standing under self?

Perhaps we’re counsellors to each other.
Therapists with kindness very like a brother.
Therapists who do not smother,
But who warmly listen,
A considerate, receptive cushion.
“Tired of’s…” a mean exclusion.
Certainly the wrong conclusion.

Tired Of 9.14.2020 Circling Round Experience; Love Relationships II; Arlene Nover Corwin

Whenever I can't think of anything to write, I turn to nature.  I've done it dozens of times: not an idea and suddenly, then gradually a charming poem comes forth.  An idea, then the work; title, words, rhymes, meter, meaning - all meshes and co-relates.  The word "orange" is a challenge, believe me.

            Turning Orange

In regions where it’s turning autumn,
Leaves red, yellow.
In our garden, they’re not yellow,
Oddly, loudly, orange yelling.

Old New Yorker I,
Used to multicoloured Falls,
I have fallen for this gaudy and remarkably
High-color, almost supernatural year phase.

In appearance, almost artificial.
What one sees is inspirational,
Which brings to mind,
Springs to mind
(It cannot ‘spring’ because it’s autumn coming soon)  
An August moon.

In the meantime, if  September
Gives  a smooth transition -
Sunny days into October,  summer
Melting into autumn:
Foxes foraging, squirrels storage-ing;
Porridge on the stove encouraging;
Summing up for coming winter:
Rhododendron green turned orange.

Turning Orange 9.11.2020 Circling Round Nature II; Arlene Nover Corwin

I  just came across this, a poem which I had completely forgotten, having rather recently written another poem about beards (as well as tattoos). And even one before that in yet another year.  Gosh!  I guess I must have stronger anti-beard feelings than I am aware of.
Anyway, it's quite good, so I'm re-presenting it.  Comments of all kinds are welcome!😍🙋‍♀️🤩
       The Men In Sweden…🤔
The men in Sweden and elsewhere
Are looking older than they are
With whiskers, stubble, ****** hair
Of every kind.
Beards, moustaches find their place
On almost every male face
These days.
I’ve bet you’ve never heard
Of pogonophobia. A funny word
That means a fear of beards and beard!
Yes, there are such mental health conditions.
So I ask, why hide the manly jaw or chin.
A chin that’s manly out and in.
I fancy ego based on fear,
Vanity that’s always there.
Affectation, ostentation, airs and show -
All the traits that go along
With fear of judgment and rejection.
Don’t they know it’s all illusion,
And the only thing that matters
Is completion of the heart and mind
That shatters all?
Finding out who, what you are
And working to complete it.
If you’re twenty-one or two,
What can beat it?
If you’ve got a double, triple chin or none,
An open face is wonderfully
To be preferred.
Lose the beard
And keep the face.
You are a much loved member of the race -
The human…
Besides, a naked face is best to kiss!
What person would not favour this?
Shaved and clean is what I mean!
I mean a face that’s smooth and clean.
Dear men, don’t hide
The face inside.
Nature’s pride is there to share
With those who at the moment stare
And wish that there was someone daring ‘nough
To face the world un-twirled, un-curled,
And wholly, perfectly unfurled.
The Men In Sweden 9.8.2018 A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Circling Round Vanities II; Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin

The River Of Poetry

The giver of poetry
Shows the river of life.
The poet - a self
Who expresses the lot,
Who has got to address motley thought,
Oughts and will,
Who can never sit still
Until writing is done
For a verse routed out
From the roots of inquiry,
Theory,
Doubt and much more to impart
In a river of eloquent art.

The River Of Poetry 8.31.2020 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin

She Was A Hippy

She never smoked, never drank,
Never joined a cult or sect.
Her hippiness, her happiness
Found itself in waist length hair,
Patterned tights,
Bra dismissed
And short, short skirts:
Her expression of new freedom.

Fifties beatniks never reached her,
But the sixties found a new awareness
Which addressed her heart,
Unleashed a part she only guessed at;
One which dressed her mind.
Convention could not bind her
As behavior took a shape unstudied,
Natural - hardly touched before.

Maturity without hashish, Rajneesh,
The itch of spirit bringing in a shift in old priorities.
A little bolder, somewhat older;
Hippy of a different sort.
Mother, wife, musician, poet
All and each each supportive
And escorting her some steps to standing,
Understanding and continuance.

She Was A Hippy 3.13.2020 Pure Nakedness II;  Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin

Signs Of Maturation
   (Or, You Don’t Need A High IQ)

I notice time and time again
I’m not the smartest on the block.
And yet, and yet,  
My art is smarter than the poppycock
Set down by others.

Trying to avoid cliches, banalities;
Striving to go deep; concrete
As every Brooklyn street I walked,
I still fall into traps of slickness,
Fear revealing cowardice.

Then pluck returns, turning
Weakling into un-concealing
Rhyme & meter, candor, frankness,
Frightened youth turned madame Truth:
Nakedness, no underwear, aware, yet baring all:

I try to use a thoughtful wording:
Criticize an oversized dictator;
Cruelty, unfairness, ******,
Herding reader into paths that further,
To the murkiness which lurks in secret.

Paradoxically, and never knowing what to say
Until I’ve said it, concepts, insights coming out
From God-knows-where, I let it shout.
Draft by draft, refining, re-defining,
A conclusion whispers, “That’s enough!”
It isn’t tough.  I stop.
And hope
           I’ve reached you.

Signs Of Maturation 9.5.2020 Pure Nakedness; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin