Reading/video of a fine poem by Irish poet Ciaran Carson (1948-2019):
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Friday, October 9, 2020
Saturday, July 13, 2019
Postcard from Anxiety
Hello! We've arrived.
Our knees have buckled,
and we're sick to our
stomachs. We're terrified
of being afraid. It's
just like home! We're
not sure how long we
will stay. We're never sure,
for certainty always lies.
We gulp our breaths.
Love to all, Us.
hans ostrom 2019
Our knees have buckled,
and we're sick to our
stomachs. We're terrified
of being afraid. It's
just like home! We're
not sure how long we
will stay. We're never sure,
for certainty always lies.
We gulp our breaths.
Love to all, Us.
hans ostrom 2019
Friday, October 19, 2018
The Matter with Matter
It rolls on. It
rolls over itself as it
rolls through itself.
How could our relationship
to it--matter--be anything
but terrifying?
Terror may be
the original spark
of myth, ideology,
religion: To explain
elaborately so
as to defend ourselves.
Christ, you think
(if you think Christ),
I'm already dead.
hans ostrom 2018
rolls over itself as it
rolls through itself.
How could our relationship
to it--matter--be anything
but terrifying?
Terror may be
the original spark
of myth, ideology,
religion: To explain
elaborately so
as to defend ourselves.
Christ, you think
(if you think Christ),
I'm already dead.
hans ostrom 2018
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
An Under-rated State of Being
Beside a creek, we discussed creeks.
At a table we talked of American
depravities--acidic combinations
of sex-policing, racist hate, and greed.
In a bookstore, we spoke of sex.
In many places, we used language
to evade. Hiding, we sometimes
told the truth. We asked questions
in anger, illness, lust, inebriation,
shock, exhaustion, and fear. We
fiercely expressed certainties
that, seen later, were all wrong.
At our best, we had nothing to say and
said nothing: an under-rated state of being.
hans ostrom 2018
At a table we talked of American
depravities--acidic combinations
of sex-policing, racist hate, and greed.
In a bookstore, we spoke of sex.
In many places, we used language
to evade. Hiding, we sometimes
told the truth. We asked questions
in anger, illness, lust, inebriation,
shock, exhaustion, and fear. We
fiercely expressed certainties
that, seen later, were all wrong.
At our best, we had nothing to say and
said nothing: an under-rated state of being.
hans ostrom 2018
Monday, October 2, 2017
The Vast Hall
Another group has rented
the vast hall here. We must leave.
We didn't know this day would come.
We knew a day would.
Yes, of course I'm confused
and afraid, as if I'd been hollowed
out and panic had been poured in.
I'm also greedy for more time
in this grand space. That's so small
of me. A door will open,
and a door will close. The simplicity
of it is appalling.
hans ostrom2017
the vast hall here. We must leave.
We didn't know this day would come.
We knew a day would.
Yes, of course I'm confused
and afraid, as if I'd been hollowed
out and panic had been poured in.
I'm also greedy for more time
in this grand space. That's so small
of me. A door will open,
and a door will close. The simplicity
of it is appalling.
hans ostrom2017
Monday, September 8, 2014
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
The Topic of Your Thighs
Your thighs are and are not
like warm, supple glass. They
make me think of seven golden
horses galloping across a field
of black grass; thus, I must
disrupt the senator's speech--
and instantly find myself
stopped, frisked, tazed,
Mirandized, Godoted, Kafkaed,
NSAed, SWATted, and entered
into the system. Why, why
did I stray
from
the topic of your thighs?
hans ostrom 2013
like warm, supple glass. They
make me think of seven golden
horses galloping across a field
of black grass; thus, I must
disrupt the senator's speech--
and instantly find myself
stopped, frisked, tazed,
Mirandized, Godoted, Kafkaed,
NSAed, SWATted, and entered
into the system. Why, why
did I stray
from
the topic of your thighs?
hans ostrom 2013
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Hiram Goes to Cafe Fear
(another in a series of "Hiram" poems)
Hiram Goes To Café Fear
Hiram thinks, “Here I am sitting inside
my shirt, shoes, and trousers, on a chair
at a table in a café.
I am afraid
of dying. Also of
nothing. I tell
a waitress what I want for lunch.
She brings it. I eat
it, holding off
fear for a while. I
don’t know
who or why I am. I am
aware
of sitting, afraid, inside my clothes
and body. This is me,
I think.
So this is me and this my fear.”
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Monday, November 3, 2008
Wary
Wary Lyric
I live in wariness,
which is no place.
It is an atmosphere,
a mental space.
*
Courtesy suggests I
ought to give an image
to sharpen what I mean.
A coyote on a ridge:
*It watches, listens, sniffs.
Only hunger makes it vicious.
Otherwise, it lives by wariness,
is naturally suspicious
*
and alone, even in company.
Me, too, to some degree.
I live in wariness, a type
of fear. That's me.
Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)