Labor Day. Such a name. For mothers about to give birth? That would be nice. For unions, the working man - a day off? Yes, that’s what it is - a day to skip labor in order to honor labor. Anamoulous.
“Labor” sounds hard – hard work. Labor sounds burdensome. Labor sounds like effort for money. Labor sounds like punishment. It doesn’t sound like “labor-for-love”. There is no Labor For Love Day.
We’ve got it all wrong. Labor Day ought to honor the efforts we make that produce all the results we get that form the continuum of our lives.
We seem to be honoring hardship. When work is done with love it is not hardship but a “ship” with lovely personal sails we’ve woven ourselves, to sail across seas of every kind. Purple prose or not, Labor Day, like every other holiday (now there’s a word worth exploring) loses meaning when it becomes a synonym for “le weekend”, as the French say, or “a Sunday” as the Swedes call any day that’s free from going to the job. (It could be Thursday or Monday – it’s still “a Sunday”.)
Let’s re-name Labor Day and call it “Cause and Effect Day”, “Karma Day”. In Sanskrit, karma means action, cause and effect and work. That’s the most neutral, accurate, all-encompassing one word I can think of to give nobility and meaning to “Labor” Day.
Forced Labor
I’m missing you, my paper dear,
When nothing’s come and I’m
Not here to use your services
Upon which surfaces I pitch
Ideas.
I miss
The inner push,
The out-rush:
Three, four hours without noticing
That I’ve been scrunched
On chair or bed,
Or what whichever I’ve been led to.
“Poetry’s for undergrads and housewives:
Activity’s sub-basement.” Wrong!
The mind gets strong,
And like a troll,
Moves upward to extract expression
From the soul,
For to exist is to express;
Intention:
Poetry and soul as one,
Work as fun: labor at its highest;
Passion’s pastime, pastime’s passion.
So I miss you, fancy’s means,
Idea’s agent, hand’s delight.
In spite of nothing new to say,
I’ll put the pen on auto-write,
Concoct without the coaxing muse.
Quelle cuisine!
Choicest ever discipline,
Sweat-sweet labor camp serene -.
And wholesome.
The Nature Of Labor (Is Invisible)
I left the house at half past ten.
The morning sun was out again.
The rain had stopped. I stood entranced.
With plastic bucket hanging from
My left wrist, glasses, jogging pants,
I danced along to gather some
Remaining berries. Half past twelve
Returned with half a bucket filled.
Mind you, only half was filled!
I’d stooped and squatted, bent and delved;
I’d climbed and walked and almost spilled…
I’d strained and stained my fingers blue –
The jogging pants were stained blue too.
Home again to rake the leaves.
Well, not exactly – take the leaves
Out of the berry bucket and the spiders
Climbing up it. Half a bucket
Fits a pie. I filled a crust:
Two hours worth of berries plucked.
Tired and hot and bored I thrust
The three hour effort in its place,
Baked the pie, its crust, its pulp
Till crispy. Then the race
Gourmand: family ate it in one gulp.
“Thank you” said the kids, and ran.
“Thank you, darling” said my man.
Day was over. Night began.
Everyone Is Working Out His Own Salvation
Everyone is working out his own salvation –
His-cum-hers – best brought off in private.
Building up his own foundation –
Hers-cum-his. Worked in secret.
Working out, on, through,
Is to suffuse the mind
With what’s been grasped
Through routine grind
Well finalized in time alone.
Quicker, safer, more intense
To build a fence of privacy,
Dispense with begging telephone
And oversold activity.
Rented films to fill
The moments when you could be still,
Should be still.
Everyone is working out his own salvation.
Welcome it with exaltation
In the closet of your day.
Life’s Work
You leave behind a life;
A life is work:
The evidence,
The carried-on,
The shaper of a million souls.
You leave behind importance
And uniqueness.
In the paradox of little-ness,
Anonymous
Amidst the throngs,
The billi-ons,
It is the principle of ripples
That applies.
Spirits rise
Or fall
With you.
Work In Progress: Gardening The Forest
I garden the forest.
Walking everywhere – like Johnny Appleseed –
I keep my excellent Swedish
Clippers at my side,
And when I eye a roadside tree
With branch too low, so’s I can see -
I make the lower branches go.
I prune and clear selectively,
Clip high as I can reach, which
Being five foot one
And using muscle of the female kind,
Is always kind to undergrowth;
Seduced by ‘further’,
Blazing paths that never were
So light can filter through.
I make for light.
It wants for sun.
The woods and me are one,
But I can’t tell a soul, wandering on
Until deceleration
Starts to take me over:
Signs I’ve learned to recognize
When fervor starts to waver
And observer me says “Rest!
Works in progress never cease -
It is a forest,
After all.
All poems © Arlene Corwin
Arlene Corwin is originally from Brooklyn, New York. She was educated at the High School Of Music and Art, and received her BA in music from Hofstra University. She began singing professionally at the age of 10 for the USO, raising money for war bonds. She continued playing the piano and singing in clubs (including one owned by her mother and Slim Gailllard). She began singing with big bands, had the lead in the now cult musical, “The Nervous Set”. She was also in John Cassavetes, “Shadows”, and “Juke Box Racket”, for which she wrote the music. She travelled around the United States with her trio, finally settling in Oxford England, where she continued singing, playing, and teaching Yoga for 16 years. She did a regular spot on radio, where she spoke about nutrition, yoga, and meditation. She is the mother of a son and a daughter. She was voted best jazz singer 1970, and did 3 television shows. After 18 years of living in Oxford, she came to Sweden for a”gig” and fell in love one last time. She has been singing, writing, gardening, cooking, living and loving in Sweden now for 24 years.
1 Comment 
Read More
