Saturday, July 25, 2020

Arlene Corwin writes


I thought for years t’was no such thing,
Believing in the ongoing of everything.
I now believe quite differently.
Fast or slow, the mind in Now,
Testing my discovery.

Details count, perhaps the most.
Every detail is its moment.
Thoughtful practice - years, perhaps.
It all becomes a lapse-less care
Combined with skilled improvisation. 

Like the movement in a symphony,
The stanza in a poem:
Complete within itself, 
Each segment but a leading
To the next and next
Until the text and form
Feel finished, polished: done.

To do it is the privilege,
To carry on the duty
To reach it is the satisfaction.
(perfectio: the Latin for completion.)

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