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Errant
A wayward knight came into our
time zone. He was diminutive,
in need of a bath, and not
that great a horseman. We recycled
his armor, found a good home
for his nag, got him some job-
training: financial sector. Last
we heard, he'd been hired by
an Internet start-up called
errant.netcomorg.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Sequioadendron Giganteum
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Sequoiadendron Giganteum
From a classroom in the building on a knoll,
I look across, see the Sequoiadendron giganteum,
a shaggy green profile foregrounding faint gray
distant Cascades and clouds rippled like a tide.
The tree's A-shape's improvised upon by growth--
something like shoulders protrude there thirty
feet from the top. And near the top, there's a gap
in boughs, where the trunk looks like a thread.
Then, askew, a few wee branches appear, a tiny
comic feathery cap, a frivolous dash, a perfect
flaw. Of course, Sequoiadendron giganteum has
nothing to tell us we haven't told ourselves.
It has nothing to do with us, but has this nothing
at such a grand and unrushed pace, we're tempted
to be quiet, simply to stare at this other thing,
this individuality of tree that encompasses its
species and thinks nothing, thinks nothing of ours.
Link to info
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Sequoiadendron Giganteum
From a classroom in the building on a knoll,
I look across, see the Sequoiadendron giganteum,
a shaggy green profile foregrounding faint gray
distant Cascades and clouds rippled like a tide.
The tree's A-shape's improvised upon by growth--
something like shoulders protrude there thirty
feet from the top. And near the top, there's a gap
in boughs, where the trunk looks like a thread.
Then, askew, a few wee branches appear, a tiny
comic feathery cap, a frivolous dash, a perfect
flaw. Of course, Sequoiadendron giganteum has
nothing to tell us we haven't told ourselves.
It has nothing to do with us, but has this nothing
at such a grand and unrushed pace, we're tempted
to be quiet, simply to stare at this other thing,
this individuality of tree that encompasses its
species and thinks nothing, thinks nothing of ours.
Link to info
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Countee Cullen
Countee Cullen was one of the first literary stars of what's known now as the Harlem Renaissance (circa 1919-1934), and although his reputation dwindled after that, it recovered, and he is arguably one of the best lyric poets the U.S. has produced. His sonnet, "Yet Do I Marvel," is perfect, blending a formal but contemporary idiom with the form and crafting a superb "argument" about race, color, theology, and existentialism--without ever getting heavy, and with a light ironic touch. It's just one of those poems you can admire forever.
There's a nice anthology of Cullen's poetry--and one novel--edited by Gerald Early: My Soul's High Song.
Eventually, Cullen pursued middle-school teaching as a career--in Harlem, where James Baldwin was one of his students.
Here is a link to more information about Cullen:
Countee
There's a nice anthology of Cullen's poetry--and one novel--edited by Gerald Early: My Soul's High Song.
Eventually, Cullen pursued middle-school teaching as a career--in Harlem, where James Baldwin was one of his students.
Here is a link to more information about Cullen:
Countee
Recycling Message
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Recycling Message
Without reading it
carefully, I just
recycled in the black
tub a postcard sent
to me and others
reminding us to live
more greenly.
Copyright 2010
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Recycling Message
Without reading it
carefully, I just
recycled in the black
tub a postcard sent
to me and others
reminding us to live
more greenly.
Copyright 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Fine Poem By Joe Salerno
At "Rinabeana's" site, I found a fine poem by Joe Salerno, "Poetry Is the Art of Not Succeeding":
Poem
Poem
Monday, February 1, 2010
Black History Month Begins
...And a happy Black History Month to you. What a good idea historian and professor Carter G. Woodson had way back when.
I thought I'd mention two worthy anthologies of African American poetry: African American Poetry: An Anthology 1773-1927, edited by Joan R. Sherman and James M. Bell--from Dover Books, for two dollars (new). And Every Shut Eye Ain't Asleep: An Anthology of African American Poetry Since 1945, edited by Michael Harper and Anthony Walton, from Back Bay Books. --Oops, this apparently leaves a gap between 1927 and 1945, so you might look at Oxford's anthology of African American poetry.
I thought I'd mention two worthy anthologies of African American poetry: African American Poetry: An Anthology 1773-1927, edited by Joan R. Sherman and James M. Bell--from Dover Books, for two dollars (new). And Every Shut Eye Ain't Asleep: An Anthology of African American Poetry Since 1945, edited by Michael Harper and Anthony Walton, from Back Bay Books. --Oops, this apparently leaves a gap between 1927 and 1945, so you might look at Oxford's anthology of African American poetry.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Follow Chekhov On Twitter
I suspected that, eventually, Anton Chekhov would get on Twitter. Lo and behold, he is:
Chekhov on Twitter
This particular twitterer tweets quotations from Chekhov's work and observations about Russia and Russians.
Chekhov would have appreciated the imposed frugality of word-choice Twitter imposes.
Chekhov on Twitter
This particular twitterer tweets quotations from Chekhov's work and observations about Russia and Russians.
Chekhov would have appreciated the imposed frugality of word-choice Twitter imposes.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The River of January
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The River of January
How wonderful it must have been
to find a river in January, when
they were hot, and they
were experiencing explorer’s
despair at the start of the 16th
century, and people who
lived there and had
already found the river looked
at them as if they too, had
been discovered already.
Probably I won’t find a river.
Are there any left to find?
I could find one already found
and rename it, except I might
be tempted to name it the
River of January, and that
wouldn’t do. So I’ll put on
a carnival hat in the Northern
Hemisphere, turn a faucet
on and off, and think of Rio
De Janeiro, flowing there
below its continent’s leading
edge, which tips toward
ocean and Africa. Promises
to oneself are easy to make,
especially when one’s wearing
a carnival hat. I promise myself
that one day I’ll fly to the River
of January, and look at it. And just
look at it and say, Rio De Janeiro.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
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The River of January
How wonderful it must have been
to find a river in January, when
they were hot, and they
were experiencing explorer’s
despair at the start of the 16th
century, and people who
lived there and had
already found the river looked
at them as if they too, had
been discovered already.
Probably I won’t find a river.
Are there any left to find?
I could find one already found
and rename it, except I might
be tempted to name it the
River of January, and that
wouldn’t do. So I’ll put on
a carnival hat in the Northern
Hemisphere, turn a faucet
on and off, and think of Rio
De Janeiro, flowing there
below its continent’s leading
edge, which tips toward
ocean and Africa. Promises
to oneself are easy to make,
especially when one’s wearing
a carnival hat. I promise myself
that one day I’ll fly to the River
of January, and look at it. And just
look at it and say, Rio De Janeiro.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Friday, January 29, 2010
Kevin Clark's New Book
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(Kevin Clark)
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My old friend Kevin Clark's new book of poetry is out: Self Portrait With Expletives. What a great title. It was the winner of the 2009 Lena-Miles Todd Poetry Series contest and selected by Martha Collins. It is published by Pleiades Press at the University of Central Missouri but distributed by Louisiana State University Press. The ISBN is 978-0-8071-3645-4.
Kevin teaches at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and is also the author of the poetry-writing textbook, The Mind's Eye (Longman).
The Last System Standing
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The Last System Standing
The Chief Executive Oligarch of Paranational,
Inc., rides in a private jet over neighborhoods
he helped ruin, oops, accidentally—you know,
a bad good-decision here and there. Hey,
it happens—naturally, like a bonus
gliding down from the heavens. If you’re
not taking chances, you’re not trying. He falls
asleep listening to opera. Assuming capitalism
once had to pretend to be better than its
worst traits, well, no more. It behaves like the last
system standing. As with the old burlesque
stripper, its excesses are its virtues. Time
is money, people are things, profit is lord,
and not to worry: the system will solve
all problems. Poverty’s temporary, and pain’s
an illusion. The system has everybody’s
best interests in mind, so take some advice
and don’t get in the way of the system--
unless you want to be like a bug on a
railroad track, a vine in the path
of a bulldozer, or a bird flying in front
of a jet-engine’s scream. These are
vivid examples—you know, like
advertising: images that educate. The system
doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. You
understand. You know how it works.
How it works is you work, or not; either
way, the product will get made, get sold,
and this is the best system there is. So,
unless you have any questions,. . . .
Copyright 2010
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The Last System Standing
The Chief Executive Oligarch of Paranational,
Inc., rides in a private jet over neighborhoods
he helped ruin, oops, accidentally—you know,
a bad good-decision here and there. Hey,
it happens—naturally, like a bonus
gliding down from the heavens. If you’re
not taking chances, you’re not trying. He falls
asleep listening to opera. Assuming capitalism
once had to pretend to be better than its
worst traits, well, no more. It behaves like the last
system standing. As with the old burlesque
stripper, its excesses are its virtues. Time
is money, people are things, profit is lord,
and not to worry: the system will solve
all problems. Poverty’s temporary, and pain’s
an illusion. The system has everybody’s
best interests in mind, so take some advice
and don’t get in the way of the system--
unless you want to be like a bug on a
railroad track, a vine in the path
of a bulldozer, or a bird flying in front
of a jet-engine’s scream. These are
vivid examples—you know, like
advertising: images that educate. The system
doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. You
understand. You know how it works.
How it works is you work, or not; either
way, the product will get made, get sold,
and this is the best system there is. So,
unless you have any questions,. . . .
Copyright 2010
Writers Born on January 29
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Oprah Winfrey
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At least according to sites I have perused, the writers listed below were born on January 29, although I haven't done my double-checking, due-diligence best.
H.L. Mencken
Emanuel Swedenborg
Thomas Paine
Anton Chekhov
Robert Frost
Edward Abbey
Leadbelly (Huddie Ledbetter)
Oprah Winfrey
W.B. Yeats
and
Edward Lear, from whom the following limerick is borrowed:
"There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, 'It is just as I feared! -
Two Owls and a Hen,
Four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard!'"
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Stadium Dream
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Her Stadium Dream
In her stadium dream, she
doesn't know where she's supposed
to go, what she's supposed to
watch on the field, where
she's supposed to sit, with
whom, and why. She wanders
around trying to decode obscure
or nonexistent numbers for
section, aisle, row, or seat.
No one pays her attention. Their
attention is focused on something
she can't see or on each other.
As she continues, the stadium
becomes a tangle of tunnels. It
has gone underground. People
become erratic. They're confused
like her and not like he. She
observes her own desolate, panicked
feeling as the dream refuses to cease.
She is begging it to cease as she wakes.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Her Stadium Dream
In her stadium dream, she
doesn't know where she's supposed
to go, what she's supposed to
watch on the field, where
she's supposed to sit, with
whom, and why. She wanders
around trying to decode obscure
or nonexistent numbers for
section, aisle, row, or seat.
No one pays her attention. Their
attention is focused on something
she can't see or on each other.
As she continues, the stadium
becomes a tangle of tunnels. It
has gone underground. People
become erratic. They're confused
like her and not like he. She
observes her own desolate, panicked
feeling as the dream refuses to cease.
She is begging it to cease as she wakes.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The Wise One
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The Wise One
"I'm the Wise One you've
been looking for," said the one
claiming to be the Wise One.
"I don't believe you," said
the one to whom the one claiming
to be the Wise One had spoken.
"See," said the Wise one, "already
you're acting wisely. That's
the effect I have on people."
Copyright 2010
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The Wise One
"I'm the Wise One you've
been looking for," said the one
claiming to be the Wise One.
"I don't believe you," said
the one to whom the one claiming
to be the Wise One had spoken.
"See," said the Wise one, "already
you're acting wisely. That's
the effect I have on people."
Copyright 2010
Sterling Brown
In a class on the Harlem Renaissance today, we read and discussed "The Odyssey of Big Boy," one of the best known poems by Sterling Brown (1901-1989). The poem is spoken by "Big Boy" himself, a working-class African American who's had many adventures (of the heart and otherwise) as he's traveled around working different jobs, from mule-skinner to stevedore. The choice to write the poem in a Black vernacular idiom was a interesting one for Brown, who grew up in Washington D.C., went to the famous Dunbar high school, then earned a degree at Williams College as well as an M.A. at Harvard. He became a professor at Howard University and got interested in African American folklore.
Brown's books of poems include Southern Road (1932), The Collected Poems of Sterling Brown (1980), The Last Ride of Wild Bill and Eleven Narrative Poems (1975).
Here is a link to more information about Sterling Brown.
Brown's books of poems include Southern Road (1932), The Collected Poems of Sterling Brown (1980), The Last Ride of Wild Bill and Eleven Narrative Poems (1975).
Here is a link to more information about Sterling Brown.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Nurses on Break
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Nurses on Break
They've come from an open heart
or a long birth, from drip of life
or failure of flesh. In green gowns
or blue, white gauzy caps, they enter
the park, stretch out like cats.
Sky is victorious, breezes querulous.
The park is arranged around
these reckoned women. Back
at the gray glum castle, pain
waits for them. It isn't going anywhere.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
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Nurses on Break
They've come from an open heart
or a long birth, from drip of life
or failure of flesh. In green gowns
or blue, white gauzy caps, they enter
the park, stretch out like cats.
Sky is victorious, breezes querulous.
The park is arranged around
these reckoned women. Back
at the gray glum castle, pain
waits for them. It isn't going anywhere.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Monday, January 25, 2010
Sonia Sanchez
Here is a link to information about Sonia Sanchez's new book of poems, Morning Haiku:
Link to Sanchez book
Sanchez has been doing highly original things with the haiku form for a long time. I think I first encountered her use of the form in her book homegirls and hand-grenades--great title for a book, too. She writes in a variety of other forms as well.
Link to Sanchez book
Sanchez has been doing highly original things with the haiku form for a long time. I think I first encountered her use of the form in her book homegirls and hand-grenades--great title for a book, too. She writes in a variety of other forms as well.
Claude McKay
Black History Month is just around the corner, and Tacoma is fortunate to be hosting the Fisk Jubilee Singers and, in a separate program, the Harlem Dance Studio.
One of my favorite Harlem Renaissance writers is Claude McKay, a native of Jamaica. He wrote poetry, fiction, and nonfiction (in the latter category, A Long Way From Home, his autobiography). He is perhaps still most famous for the protest-poem in sonnet-form, "If We Must Die," written in response to the terrible events of the Red Summer of 1919, when an epidemic of anti-Black violence occurred in the U.S.
Later, during World War II, Winston Churchill "adopted" the poem, not knowing its author was Black and not knowing the original context. As McKay notes in a recording I have, he (McKay) was just fine with, if bemused by, that. I also have a recording of Ice-T reading the poem. He does a nice job.
Here is a link to more information about McKay.
One of my favorite Harlem Renaissance writers is Claude McKay, a native of Jamaica. He wrote poetry, fiction, and nonfiction (in the latter category, A Long Way From Home, his autobiography). He is perhaps still most famous for the protest-poem in sonnet-form, "If We Must Die," written in response to the terrible events of the Red Summer of 1919, when an epidemic of anti-Black violence occurred in the U.S.
Later, during World War II, Winston Churchill "adopted" the poem, not knowing its author was Black and not knowing the original context. As McKay notes in a recording I have, he (McKay) was just fine with, if bemused by, that. I also have a recording of Ice-T reading the poem. He does a nice job.
Here is a link to more information about McKay.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Poetry Slam in Mainz
Many moons ago I taught at Johannes Gutenberg University in the great city of Mainz, Germany--then West Germany. Yes, indeed, that's where Johannes started all this printing business, which is now virtual. Mainz is across the Rhine (or Rhein) from Weisbaden, in Germany's wine country, which is probably still less well known than it should be.
Back then I couldn't have imagined that there would be such a thing as a Poetry Slam in Mainz, chiefly because "poetry slam" wasn't part of the parlance then. I was not aware of a poetry-reading culture in Mainz then, but no doubt one existed. I was just too busy teaching too many classes, improving my German, and making cultural adjustments.
Indeed there is such a thing as . . .
Poetry Slam Mainz
. . .--as well there should be.
Back then I couldn't have imagined that there would be such a thing as a Poetry Slam in Mainz, chiefly because "poetry slam" wasn't part of the parlance then. I was not aware of a poetry-reading culture in Mainz then, but no doubt one existed. I was just too busy teaching too many classes, improving my German, and making cultural adjustments.
Indeed there is such a thing as . . .
Poetry Slam Mainz
. . .--as well there should be.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Winter's Dull Knife
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Winter's Dull Knife
The dull gray blade of Winter's fallen. It
cuts with cold, leaves bloodless wounds:
fatigue, despair, and ague. Winter doesn't
mean well. It doesn't mean anything, although
Lord knows we've tried to dress it in
significance. Some people like to ski.
There are holidays and sweaters.
There's the other hemisphere, which
Summer shacks up with now that it's
left us high and wet. Mostly we walk,
work, and ride in Winter, stay inside
in Winter, sniffling over bowls of soup,
napping with heavy Russian novels,
always hardback, on our chests, mentally
collecting many types of gray, hoping
Winter never finds a sharpening stone.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Winter's Dull Knife
The dull gray blade of Winter's fallen. It
cuts with cold, leaves bloodless wounds:
fatigue, despair, and ague. Winter doesn't
mean well. It doesn't mean anything, although
Lord knows we've tried to dress it in
significance. Some people like to ski.
There are holidays and sweaters.
There's the other hemisphere, which
Summer shacks up with now that it's
left us high and wet. Mostly we walk,
work, and ride in Winter, stay inside
in Winter, sniffling over bowls of soup,
napping with heavy Russian novels,
always hardback, on our chests, mentally
collecting many types of gray, hoping
Winter never finds a sharpening stone.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Monday, January 18, 2010
Cubist Village
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Cubist Village
A blue horse pulls its fractured,
functional vegetable cart parallel
and perpendicular to our window,
which looks out on an alley and
our living room, where we scratch
noses at the back of our heads,
which host warped angles and excite
the sky beneath our feet. The silent
music of this vortex soothes. Wake up
to the lullaby of thunder's lightning.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Cubist Village
A blue horse pulls its fractured,
functional vegetable cart parallel
and perpendicular to our window,
which looks out on an alley and
our living room, where we scratch
noses at the back of our heads,
which host warped angles and excite
the sky beneath our feet. The silent
music of this vortex soothes. Wake up
to the lullaby of thunder's lightning.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Haitian Poetry
Ezra Pound famously asserted that poetry is "news that stays news," but in the face of a catastrophe like the one in Haiti, poetry seems inadequate, far removed from desperate, immediate needs and overwhelming loss. As we contribute what we can and wait for information about else we might do over the longer haul, however, we can take a moment to consider the poetry from the land afflicted. Here is a link to an anthology of Haitian poetry edited by Chris Waters:
Haitian Poetry
Haitian Poetry
Friday, January 15, 2010
Some Writers Born In January
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Writers born in January include Lewis Carroll, A.A. Milne, Anton Chekhov, W. Somerset Maugham, Patricia Highsmith, Isaac Asimov, and Zora Neale Hurston (in the photo). Langston Hughes missed January by that much (as Maxwell Smart used to say), having been born on February 1, 1902--in Joplin, Missouri.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Since 1804
An item I found in Quintard Taylor's nice reference work, Black Facts: The Timelines of African American History, 1601-2008 (p. 64):
"1804: On January 1, Haiti becomes an independent nation. It is the second independent nation in the Western Hemisphere (after the United States)."
"1804: On January 1, Haiti becomes an independent nation. It is the second independent nation in the Western Hemisphere (after the United States)."
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Fund for Haitian Relief
Below is a link to one of many funds to support relief in Haiti. This fund is well established and supported by musician Wyclef Jean:
Haiti Relief
Haiti Relief
Friday, January 8, 2010
Monosyllabic Life
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Monosyllabic Life
born, breathe, cry, eat, smile,
crap, want, hurt, pee, sleep,
dance, want, hurt, like, fear,
love, learn, heal, lose, "win,"
call, bleed, wish, sweat, write,
tire, sing, talk, read, drink,
sleep, play, work, sex, know,
find, grow, raise, hope, ache,
grieve, weep, groan, buy, lust,
wear, wash, rest, sell, wish,
lick, frown, cheat, help, find,
shame, ask, take, will, give.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Monosyllabic Life
born, breathe, cry, eat, smile,
crap, want, hurt, pee, sleep,
dance, want, hurt, like, fear,
love, learn, heal, lose, "win,"
call, bleed, wish, sweat, write,
tire, sing, talk, read, drink,
sleep, play, work, sex, know,
find, grow, raise, hope, ache,
grieve, weep, groan, buy, lust,
wear, wash, rest, sell, wish,
lick, frown, cheat, help, find,
shame, ask, take, will, give.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Patrick McGoohan on THE PRISONER
Here is a video clip from an interview with the late Patrick McGoohan concerning his TV series, The Prisoner, which I believe was and remains perfectly suited to poets who like to watch TV:
McGoohan on The Prisoner
McGoohan on The Prisoner
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Chore
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The Chore
Life never seemed simple. Once,
though, it appeared to have fewer
components. That was an ego ago.
Mirrors showed compassion. Amazement
was not yet rare. Programmers
had not yet inherited the Earth.
Nostalgia, I'm told, is a yearning,
a warm emotion. What I feel is cold.
It accompanies basic, necessary work:
contrasting yesterday's illusions with today's.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2010
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The Chore
Life never seemed simple. Once,
though, it appeared to have fewer
components. That was an ego ago.
Mirrors showed compassion. Amazement
was not yet rare. Programmers
had not yet inherited the Earth.
Nostalgia, I'm told, is a yearning,
a warm emotion. What I feel is cold.
It accompanies basic, necessary work:
contrasting yesterday's illusions with today's.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Against Yesterday
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Against Yesterday
Yesterday is not a good idea. It
just happened, so it's not really
history. It's more like a today
that's started to rot. Yesterday
can't make any promises, and even
if it could, it wouldn't keep them.
Yesterday annoys--the way it blurs
into a perfectly fine today, insulation
between the two disintegrating like
wet cotton candy. Listen, I'm
not saying we ought to abolish
yesterday. I'm suggesting we impose
severe regulations. I'm thinking
we should investigate what a yester
is, why in fact yesterday isn't
yestermorrow, and who made
midnight boss.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Against Yesterday
Yesterday is not a good idea. It
just happened, so it's not really
history. It's more like a today
that's started to rot. Yesterday
can't make any promises, and even
if it could, it wouldn't keep them.
Yesterday annoys--the way it blurs
into a perfectly fine today, insulation
between the two disintegrating like
wet cotton candy. Listen, I'm
not saying we ought to abolish
yesterday. I'm suggesting we impose
severe regulations. I'm thinking
we should investigate what a yester
is, why in fact yesterday isn't
yestermorrow, and who made
midnight boss.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Rampant Significance
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(image: Sumerian tablet)
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It's been a while since I've seen wee advertisements on TV for videos of "girls gone wild." I gather from the ads that the "girls" in question are chiefly college students on break who are induced to lift their shirts and expose what, in Sweden (for example, would be unremarkable if nonetheless unobjectionable and certainly not without charm. Probably the videos should be called "girls gone bored" or "boys gone predictable."
I doubt if I can successfully market the idea of "significance gone rampant," so I wrote a poem.
Rampant Significance
There is too much meaning. Everywhere
you refuse to turn, something means.
Messages are getting across. Answers
proliferate like dust mites. Typhoons
of information saturate our land.
In my mind I found the image
of a solitary Sumerian slowly
etching text into stone. The notion
of a billion email messages per
[insert unit here] then swept
the Sumerian and his chisel away like
an ant in a flash flood. No one
has time to be absurd. People
are too busy making themselves understood.
To what end? Points are being stressed.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Monday, January 4, 2010
Brazilian Poetry
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(image: Brasilia's Metro system)
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*
Today I ran across a nice little overview of Brazlian poetry. The overview appeared (and still appears) on the U.S. Brazilian Consulate's web site. I wonder if the Brazil U.S. Consulate's site has an essay about American poetry. Probably not.
Anyway, the piece sent me in search of An Anthology of Twentieth Century Brazilian Poetry, edited by Elizabeth Bishop (on whose poem, "The Fish," I once published a wee essay--pardon the self-serving but non-commercial interruption)and Emmanuel Brasil. It is, I assume in translation--for us dolts who don't read Portuguese. Anyway, I ordered the book. I was about to write that I can't wait to read it, but of course I can wait to read it--I just don't want to wait. While ordering the book, I also saw Seven Faces: Brazilian Poetry Since Modernism, edited by Charles A. Perrone--also an anthology, I gather. What a nice title.
Anyway, here is a link to the Bishop/Brasil anthology:
Brazilian poetry
Friday, January 1, 2010
They'll Grow That Way
*
*
*
*
*
They'll Grow That Way
They'll grow that way, the trees--
the way they negotiate themselves
and circumstances: weather, climate,
soil, and such. They they're there.
They are. We are. We look and name,
then file trees away in this or that
taxonomy, maybe mythology,
ecology. We may place trees into
a landscape design, a farm, or an idea
of wilderness. The trees, they don't
know about this. They'll grow
that way, each a tension rooting
in and branching from a code
of seed, a pattern of environment.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
*
They'll Grow That Way
They'll grow that way, the trees--
the way they negotiate themselves
and circumstances: weather, climate,
soil, and such. They they're there.
They are. We are. We look and name,
then file trees away in this or that
taxonomy, maybe mythology,
ecology. We may place trees into
a landscape design, a farm, or an idea
of wilderness. The trees, they don't
know about this. They'll grow
that way, each a tension rooting
in and branching from a code
of seed, a pattern of environment.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Skål: Swedish New Year
I spent one New Year's Eve in Kiruna, a mining city north of the Arctic Circle in Sweden. At the time, some of the miners would drive big and old American cars around the ice-packed streets, but that was quite a while ago. Many Sami (people whose ancestors were indigenous to that part of Sweden) live there, and among their artistic traditions is the engraving of pewter. More about New Year's in Sweden:
Swedish New Year
Swedish New Year
New Year's Poetry
Poetry.org has a nice feature on "New Year" poems, including the most famous one--by Robert Burns.
Link to New Year poems
Happy New Year.
Link to New Year poems
Happy New Year.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
WENCH
The blogger Library Love Fest has a nice review of Dolen Perkins-Valdez's novel, Wench, just out from HarperCollins/Amistad Press.
Review of Wench
Dolen is a friend and colleague, and I'll post something myself on the novel soon. In the meantime . . . get a copy of this fine novel!
Review of Wench
Dolen is a friend and colleague, and I'll post something myself on the novel soon. In the meantime . . . get a copy of this fine novel!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Mark Halliday Reads "Scale"
Here is a video of poet and professor Mark Halliday reading his poem, "Scale," which I heard/saw him read on our campus and which I admire a lot:
Mark Halliday reads
Mark Halliday reads
Bad-Boyfriend Poem
I found this poem by Thadra Sheridan--delivered well by her on Def Poetry Jam--amusing and nicely crafted:
"Bad Boyfriend" Video
"Bad Boyfriend" Video
This Mess Proceeds
*
*
*
*
*
This Mess Proceeds
wash/wish goes the traffic. rain.
tacoma's not too bright today, but
let's face it: no city's a genius.
look carefully, and you'll see
nobody's got it figured out, life
i mean: how we all dress, stand,
talk, sit, wait. especially poignant--
how we pretend to know.
pups for sale in the window, christmas
day: is that okay? televisions mumbling
sub-sonically behind what they cast
into rooms. the sun's in a hurry to
set: that's a lie in multiple ways,
but if it feels good to say, say
it: no one will be misled or get
their feelings hurt, even the
astronomer who lives next door.
december, decemberish, wash/wish
goes the traffic. this mess proceeds.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
*
This Mess Proceeds
wash/wish goes the traffic. rain.
tacoma's not too bright today, but
let's face it: no city's a genius.
look carefully, and you'll see
nobody's got it figured out, life
i mean: how we all dress, stand,
talk, sit, wait. especially poignant--
how we pretend to know.
pups for sale in the window, christmas
day: is that okay? televisions mumbling
sub-sonically behind what they cast
into rooms. the sun's in a hurry to
set: that's a lie in multiple ways,
but if it feels good to say, say
it: no one will be misled or get
their feelings hurt, even the
astronomer who lives next door.
december, decemberish, wash/wish
goes the traffic. this mess proceeds.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Friday, December 25, 2009
Video of Richard Hugo
Here is a link to a crisp video of Richard Hugo as he discusses the advantage of not knowing much, in a factual sense, about a subject (in this case, a town) you're approaching in your capacity as poet:
Richard Hugo video
Richard Hugo video
Hagios Press
Here is a link to a Canadian publisher of poetry and fiction, Hagios Press, in Saskatchewan:
http://hagiospress.com/?s=aboutus
http://hagiospress.com/?s=aboutus
The Fathering Squad
*
*
*
*
*
The Fathering Squad
so we face the fathering squad--
against the wall of life, executed
repeatedly, starting at birth,
for crimes we'll commit against
fathers' ideas of what we shoulda
oughtta have turned out to be or
not to be, no question about
it. then, fascinating,
we become maybe fathers ourselves
but, if lucky, realize in time we
shouldn't oughtta join the fathering
squad or at the very least refuse
to fire and instead, what a concept,
help the offspring spring on into
life. ready, aim, love.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
*
The Fathering Squad
so we face the fathering squad--
against the wall of life, executed
repeatedly, starting at birth,
for crimes we'll commit against
fathers' ideas of what we shoulda
oughtta have turned out to be or
not to be, no question about
it. then, fascinating,
we become maybe fathers ourselves
but, if lucky, realize in time we
shouldn't oughtta join the fathering
squad or at the very least refuse
to fire and instead, what a concept,
help the offspring spring on into
life. ready, aim, love.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
WHITE LIGHT PRIMITIVE by Andrew Stubbs
I've been reading and re-reading the book of poems, White Light Primitive, by Andrew Stubbs, a Canadian poet, professor, and scholar. The book was published this year--by Hagios Press.
It's one of the more memorable, impressive books of poems I've read for some time, made all the more pleasurable because I know Andy. We taught at Gutenberg University in Mainz, Germany, many, many moons ago.
Some of the poems concern his father's experience in World War II. Others concern--well, this is where one wants simply to say, "Read the poems." The quality of perception, phrasing, imagery, and thought makes all the difference, regardless of the "subjects" or "ideas" Andy approaches. How life actually occurs to the mind and lodges in memory is, to some degree, a fascination of the book. There comparisons to Alan Dugan, Wallace Stevens, Eli Mandel, and other poets to be made. But the genius of these poems may well lie in the individuality of perception and in the spare language that manages to be rich, always enough, never minimalist in a mannered way. For example, here's the opening of a poem called "fire and ice":
winter adding to itself, details
of the dead fill the back
yards, smell of
pine breathing snow
in swimming pools. followed by
april melt, local
river flood, now think
back in time from
open sky, july
heat, plan on
doing . . .
White Light Primitive is one of those books that induce the reader to say, simply, "Thanks."
It's one of the more memorable, impressive books of poems I've read for some time, made all the more pleasurable because I know Andy. We taught at Gutenberg University in Mainz, Germany, many, many moons ago.
Some of the poems concern his father's experience in World War II. Others concern--well, this is where one wants simply to say, "Read the poems." The quality of perception, phrasing, imagery, and thought makes all the difference, regardless of the "subjects" or "ideas" Andy approaches. How life actually occurs to the mind and lodges in memory is, to some degree, a fascination of the book. There comparisons to Alan Dugan, Wallace Stevens, Eli Mandel, and other poets to be made. But the genius of these poems may well lie in the individuality of perception and in the spare language that manages to be rich, always enough, never minimalist in a mannered way. For example, here's the opening of a poem called "fire and ice":
winter adding to itself, details
of the dead fill the back
yards, smell of
pine breathing snow
in swimming pools. followed by
april melt, local
river flood, now think
back in time from
open sky, july
heat, plan on
doing . . .
White Light Primitive is one of those books that induce the reader to say, simply, "Thanks."
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Shelter In The Cold
We went to a rewarding Christmas Eve religious service at a place called Nativity House. It's a daytime shelter for those living on the streets or otherwise in impoverishment. The people can drop in during the day, get coffee and soup, read books, play cards, and create art. --Or just hang out and stay warm, converse.
Those attending the service were chiefly members of a Jesuit parish, or affiliated with Nativity House (serving on the board), or just knowledgeable about what NH does. (It's been in Tacoma for 30 years.) A few drop-in regulars attended, too, and one played guitar.
Presiding were a Lutheran minister and a Catholic priest. The latter is Fr. Bill Bischel, known as Father Bix locally. He routinely gets arrested when he chains himself to a gate at (for example) the Bangor, Washington, nuclear submarine base. Bix's argument, among others, is that any nuclear weapon violates international law because it produces indiscriminate killing. He goes to trial again soon.
But that was not the purpose of this evening's Christmas service. Rather the purpose was, aside from the obvious, to consider those without shelter--no room at the inn, and all that.
The service featured many lovely "mistakes," owing to two ministers presiding (both pushing 80) and other factors. Also helping to preside were both Lutheran and Jesuit volunteers--men and women who had graduated from college and wanted to volunteer for a year. One of them told us, "I'm not a Lutheran, but I'm a Lutheran volunteer because I wanted to work with the homeless."
In place of the eucharistic bread was hard-tack; in place of the wine was cranberry juice. "The wine has been transformed into cranberry juice," observed Father Bix, calmly.
In that spirit, if you will, Nativity House never proselytizes or preaches. It provides the space, the warmth, the food, and the clothes. That is all. That is enough, almost. Too much need, not quite enough material and good will. As we wait for a better system, so to speak, we do some semblance of what we can.
Those attending the service were chiefly members of a Jesuit parish, or affiliated with Nativity House (serving on the board), or just knowledgeable about what NH does. (It's been in Tacoma for 30 years.) A few drop-in regulars attended, too, and one played guitar.
Presiding were a Lutheran minister and a Catholic priest. The latter is Fr. Bill Bischel, known as Father Bix locally. He routinely gets arrested when he chains himself to a gate at (for example) the Bangor, Washington, nuclear submarine base. Bix's argument, among others, is that any nuclear weapon violates international law because it produces indiscriminate killing. He goes to trial again soon.
But that was not the purpose of this evening's Christmas service. Rather the purpose was, aside from the obvious, to consider those without shelter--no room at the inn, and all that.
The service featured many lovely "mistakes," owing to two ministers presiding (both pushing 80) and other factors. Also helping to preside were both Lutheran and Jesuit volunteers--men and women who had graduated from college and wanted to volunteer for a year. One of them told us, "I'm not a Lutheran, but I'm a Lutheran volunteer because I wanted to work with the homeless."
In place of the eucharistic bread was hard-tack; in place of the wine was cranberry juice. "The wine has been transformed into cranberry juice," observed Father Bix, calmly.
In that spirit, if you will, Nativity House never proselytizes or preaches. It provides the space, the warmth, the food, and the clothes. That is all. That is enough, almost. Too much need, not quite enough material and good will. As we wait for a better system, so to speak, we do some semblance of what we can.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Poetry in Yemen
Because more people visit the abode in late December and early January, one tends to tidy up. Tidying up has resulted in more clear space on the top of the mission-style desk that hosts the laptop--and that now has room for . . . a globe. Since childhood, I've been enchanted by globes, and perhaps you have, too.
A recent spin of the globe reminded me that Yemen lies south of Saudi Arabia, possesses a long coast on the Gulf of Aden, and is east of Ethiopia and north of Somalia. It is also a land of poets, as described by (among others) Steven C. Caton, who writes of poetry as a cultural [meaning everyday?] practice in a Yemeni tribe:
Book on Yemeni Poetry
Greetings to Yemeni poets.
A recent spin of the globe reminded me that Yemen lies south of Saudi Arabia, possesses a long coast on the Gulf of Aden, and is east of Ethiopia and north of Somalia. It is also a land of poets, as described by (among others) Steven C. Caton, who writes of poetry as a cultural [meaning everyday?] practice in a Yemeni tribe:
Book on Yemeni Poetry
Greetings to Yemeni poets.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Before Katrina
*
*
*
*
Before Katrina
What size, what color, how many?
said the New Orleans T-shirt merchant.
Say, buddy, jus' a minute, jus'
a minute, said the inebriated man
on Canal Street, his life misplaced
behind his eyes somewhere. Talk to you
for a minute? he said.
Now I'm back behind gauze
of hotel drapery looking
at charcoal silhouettes of
financial towers. I gave
the boozy man some money,
and to the street-vendor,
I said big, blue, and one.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
Before Katrina
What size, what color, how many?
said the New Orleans T-shirt merchant.
Say, buddy, jus' a minute, jus'
a minute, said the inebriated man
on Canal Street, his life misplaced
behind his eyes somewhere. Talk to you
for a minute? he said.
Now I'm back behind gauze
of hotel drapery looking
at charcoal silhouettes of
financial towers. I gave
the boozy man some money,
and to the street-vendor,
I said big, blue, and one.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Food Poetry
Here is a link to a site featuring poems about food, including "To A Goose," by Robert Southey. The goose, deducing that it was being viewed as food, probably had mixed feelings about the "tribute." Southey's not much read now, even though he was Poet Laureate of England. He is among the British Romantic generation, of course, that includes Byron and Wordsworth. Southey's best known now as the creator of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears," which is also partly about food.
Food Poems
Food Poems
Friday, December 11, 2009
Poet Laureate of Alabama
Sue Walker is the Poet Laureate of Alabama, serving her second term. She's a fine poet, and she's an editor and the publisher at Negative Capability Press in Mobile, Alabama:
NC Press
In the interests of full disclosure, I should add that Sue published an essay I wrote about Karl Shapiro--in a special collection of essays about him. John Updike contributed to the volume, among many others.
NC Press
In the interests of full disclosure, I should add that Sue published an essay I wrote about Karl Shapiro--in a special collection of essays about him. John Updike contributed to the volume, among many others.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Orson Welles' Favorite Poet?
According to this source, at least, Robert Graves was Orson Welles' favorite poet.
New Chilean Poets
When North Americans and Europeans think of Chilean poets, they probably still think largely of Pablo Neruda and/or Gabriela Mistral. (Interestingly, both "Pablo Neruda" and "Gabriela Mistral" were pseudonyms.) Here is a link to a collection of four more recent Chilean poets; the collection was published at Arizona State University Press:
Chilean poets
Chilean poets
Chocolate, O Chocolate
Today I saw someone who seemed deeply satisfied with a piece of chocolate, so I thought it might be time to post the poem, "Chocolate," again--first posted a year ago.
Chocolate
1
After the moon has set but before sunrise,
sweet breezes issue from dark brown corridors
of a warm, fronded forest. This is the hour of
chocolate, when the mind is weary of merely
thinking and wants to dance with ancient
instincts, to self-induce a swoon by
indulging in lore from forbidden precincts.
2
Inside cacao beans lies a secret
that survives translations of growth
and harvest, roast and grind, concoction
and confectionery concatenation. After
tasting chocolate, tongues transmit
the news by nerve-line, enzyme,
and bloodstream to mahogany-lined private
clubs in the brain. There receptors
luxuriate on divans and thrill
at the arrival of tropical gossip.
After the messages from chocolate
arrive, brown damask draperies vibrate,
and pleased devotees purr pleasurably.
3
My darling, I wouldn't choose
between chocolates and flowers,
so I brought both. Let me put
the latter in a vase as you open
and taste the former. Yes, I agree:
chocolate is film noir watched
by taste buds in the mouth's
art-house theater. Barbarously
suave, chocolate is an unabashedly
debauched foodstuff--cad and coquette
of cacao. Darling, you're making
those noises you make when you eat
chocolate--the secret language of
satisfaction, the patter of pleasure,
your mumbled homage to this,
the moment of chocolate.
Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom
Chocolate
1
After the moon has set but before sunrise,
sweet breezes issue from dark brown corridors
of a warm, fronded forest. This is the hour of
chocolate, when the mind is weary of merely
thinking and wants to dance with ancient
instincts, to self-induce a swoon by
indulging in lore from forbidden precincts.
2
Inside cacao beans lies a secret
that survives translations of growth
and harvest, roast and grind, concoction
and confectionery concatenation. After
tasting chocolate, tongues transmit
the news by nerve-line, enzyme,
and bloodstream to mahogany-lined private
clubs in the brain. There receptors
luxuriate on divans and thrill
at the arrival of tropical gossip.
After the messages from chocolate
arrive, brown damask draperies vibrate,
and pleased devotees purr pleasurably.
3
My darling, I wouldn't choose
between chocolates and flowers,
so I brought both. Let me put
the latter in a vase as you open
and taste the former. Yes, I agree:
chocolate is film noir watched
by taste buds in the mouth's
art-house theater. Barbarously
suave, chocolate is an unabashedly
debauched foodstuff--cad and coquette
of cacao. Darling, you're making
those noises you make when you eat
chocolate--the secret language of
satisfaction, the patter of pleasure,
your mumbled homage to this,
the moment of chocolate.
Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Looking For A Good Cafe In Tacoma?
If you live in, are passing through, or plan to visit Tacoma, and if you're looking for good independent cafes, then look no further than a recent post by A Scribble or a Sonnet:
Coffee In Tacoma
Coffee In Tacoma
Translation of a Poem by Erik Gustaf Geijer
Erik Gustaf Geijer (1783-1847) was a Swedish writer, historian, and professor. He grew up in Varmland and attended Uppsala University. Here is a link to more information about him:
Geijer
A while ago I took a shot at translating one of his lyric poems.
Salongen och Skogen
By Erik Gustaf Geijer
Stojande verld, du mig plågar!
Hvar fines stillhet? Dit vill jag vandra.
På allt havad hjertat frågar
Ej får du svar af dig sjelf, ej af andra.
Hellre I skogen jag vankar.
Aftonens flägt genom kronorna susar
Men mina stilla tankar
Hör jag ändå, fastän skogen brusar.
Polite Society Versus The Woods
(translated by Hans Ostrom)
Noisy world, you plague me!
Where is there stillness? I’ll go there.
An old heart must not ask
Hard questions of itself or of another.
I’d much rather wander in woods
Than watch days get devoured by official fervor.
My languorous thoughts long
For a forest, listen for its steady murmur.
(translation Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom)
Geijer
A while ago I took a shot at translating one of his lyric poems.
Salongen och Skogen
By Erik Gustaf Geijer
Stojande verld, du mig plågar!
Hvar fines stillhet? Dit vill jag vandra.
På allt havad hjertat frågar
Ej får du svar af dig sjelf, ej af andra.
Hellre I skogen jag vankar.
Aftonens flägt genom kronorna susar
Men mina stilla tankar
Hör jag ändå, fastän skogen brusar.
Polite Society Versus The Woods
(translated by Hans Ostrom)
Noisy world, you plague me!
Where is there stillness? I’ll go there.
An old heart must not ask
Hard questions of itself or of another.
I’d much rather wander in woods
Than watch days get devoured by official fervor.
My languorous thoughts long
For a forest, listen for its steady murmur.
(translation Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom)
Monday, December 7, 2009
Napoleon Read Poetry
If a busy general and dictator like Napoleon could find time to read poetry, surely we can, too. True, most of the information concerning the Napmeister's reading focuses on his time in exile, sans army. Maybe when he was posing for some of those portraits, he was reaching for a wee chapbook of poems stuck in his jacket. Anyway, here is a link to more information about what he was looking for in the way of poetry:
Napoleon
Napoleon
Learning Curve Records
A link to Learning Curve Records, Minneapolis:
LCR
Now I have to find out exactly what kind of music "post-Punk" is. I'm pretty sure it involves electric guitars, but that's about as far as I've gotten.
LCR
Now I have to find out exactly what kind of music "post-Punk" is. I'm pretty sure it involves electric guitars, but that's about as far as I've gotten.
Rip Rap and Cold Mountain
It is one of those relatively rare days in the Puget Sound region when the sunlight is extremely bright and temperature almost extremely low. We started at 21 degrees this morning, but if you're sitting inside looking out, you might be tricked into thinking the view is from late Spring.
In honor of the crisp imagery and low temperatures, as well as the Pacific Northwest, I'll mention one of my favorite books by Gary Snyder: Rip Rap and Cold Mountain Poems. Snyder is a native of the Pacific Northwest, of course, and attended Reed College, as well as serving as a fire-lookout in the Cascades. The Cold Mountain Poems are translations of work by the Chinese poet Han Shan. Snyder studied Asian Languages and Literature at U.C. Berkeley.
A link to the book:
Rip Rap
In honor of the crisp imagery and low temperatures, as well as the Pacific Northwest, I'll mention one of my favorite books by Gary Snyder: Rip Rap and Cold Mountain Poems. Snyder is a native of the Pacific Northwest, of course, and attended Reed College, as well as serving as a fire-lookout in the Cascades. The Cold Mountain Poems are translations of work by the Chinese poet Han Shan. Snyder studied Asian Languages and Literature at U.C. Berkeley.
A link to the book:
Rip Rap
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Poet Derrick C. Brown
Some performance poets came to campus, and the students especially liked the work, performance, energy, and humor of Derrick C. Brown. Here's a link to a video of him reading with a back-up band:
Link to Brown
Link to Brown
William Kloefkorn: Nebraska's Poet Laureate
Thee position of State Poet in Nebraska carries a lifetime appointment, and William Kloefkorn holds occupies the post now. For more information about him and his several books of poetry, please use the . . .
Link
Link
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Poetry-Blog Rankings
I found a site that ranks poetry-blogs. So far, so good. I don't know who does the ranking or what the criteria are, but no doubt the system makes more sense than the Electoral College and the Bowl Championship Series system:
http://www.poetryblogrankings.com/
Do other nations like to rank things as much as Americans?
http://www.poetryblogrankings.com/
Do other nations like to rank things as much as Americans?
Friday, December 4, 2009
Balloonist's Final Entry
I thought I'd posted this poem long ago, but apparently not. It appeared first in the Spoon River Quarterly.
Balloonist's Log, Final Entry
The field of our day lay ordinarily
before us. Gravity and practice
tethered our thoughts
to checklists. Helium
swelled fabric beyond wrinkled
rainbow to painted light-bulb. Up--
and foreheads; then hats and coiffures,
quickly pigment on the landscape. Cheers
littered the wind. We thought
we knew the limits. But late
in the day the continent of air between
field and cloud shrank to an urgent isthmus.
The causes were final and cited
accurately. In the meantime,
we bartered in good faith with Earth,
starting with sandbags, moving through provisions,
ending with camera, compass, and hope.
Rapid descent reduced the gondola and us to ballast.
By the time the trees and rocks were close enough
to name, choice had changed to fate
at a predictable rate.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Balloonist's Log, Final Entry
The field of our day lay ordinarily
before us. Gravity and practice
tethered our thoughts
to checklists. Helium
swelled fabric beyond wrinkled
rainbow to painted light-bulb. Up--
and foreheads; then hats and coiffures,
quickly pigment on the landscape. Cheers
littered the wind. We thought
we knew the limits. But late
in the day the continent of air between
field and cloud shrank to an urgent isthmus.
The causes were final and cited
accurately. In the meantime,
we bartered in good faith with Earth,
starting with sandbags, moving through provisions,
ending with camera, compass, and hope.
Rapid descent reduced the gondola and us to ballast.
By the time the trees and rocks were close enough
to name, choice had changed to fate
at a predictable rate.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Wisconsin's Poet Laureate
Marilyn L. Taylor is the Poet Laureate of Wisconsin, and here is a link to her Web page:
http://www.mlt-poet.com/
Her term runs through 2010.
http://www.mlt-poet.com/
Her term runs through 2010.
Carol Muske-Dukes
Mary Beth Barber of the California Arts Council wrote to inform me that Carol Muske-Dukes is the new Poet Laureate of California. Thanks to Mary Beth, congratulations to Carol, and a pleasant evening to Ina Coolbrith.
Al Young, California's Poet Laureate
As you might have guessed from the title of this post, Al Young is California's Poet Laureate. (Excellent choice, California!). Here is a link to more information about that:
http://www.netstate.com/states/symb/poetlaureate/ca_poetlaureate.htm
Ina Coolbrith, in addition to possessing a terrific name, was California's first Poet Laureate. With raw immodesty, I must mention that a poem of mine once won an Ina Coolbrith Award. I drove from Davis to Berkeley to pick it up (the award, not the poem) and to eat dinner, which, to college student, was a most welcome aspect of the award.
So here's to Ina and Al.
http://www.netstate.com/states/symb/poetlaureate/ca_poetlaureate.htm
Ina Coolbrith, in addition to possessing a terrific name, was California's first Poet Laureate. With raw immodesty, I must mention that a poem of mine once won an Ina Coolbrith Award. I drove from Davis to Berkeley to pick it up (the award, not the poem) and to eat dinner, which, to college student, was a most welcome aspect of the award.
So here's to Ina and Al.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Minnesota's Poet Laureate
I have known relatives in Minnesota, so I'm sure they're aware that the venerable Robert Bly is the Poet Laureate of that state. His holding such an established governmental post might have been unthinkable in the 1960s and 1970s, partly because he wrote, read, published, and spoke so fiercely and constantly against war.
But now the decision to give him the honor seems perfect--but not without a hitch, it seems. Apparently Governor Tim Pawlenty (whose last name seems like a lovely three-syllable way of saying "plenty") vetoed, not the appointment of Bly itself, but the position of Poet Laureate, which the legislature had re-established. Pawlenty was quoted as opining,
"Even though we have a state 'folklorist,' I also have concern this will lead to calls for other similar positions. We could also see requests for a state mime, interpretive dancer or potter."
Apparently the governor intended this argument to be one opposed to the Poet Laureate position, but it is more easily interpreted as an argument in favor. How splendid to have a state mime, a state dancer, and a state potter! These are the sorts of positions that would improve one's view of government. And how amusing to see journalists attempting to interview the state mime!
Anyway, the governor relented, or had his veto over-ridden or rode hard and put away wet, or something.
The first Poet Laureate of Minnesota was Margarette Ball Dickson, I have learned.
More information:
Link
How many votes does it take to get elected governor of Minnesota? Puh-lenty!
But now the decision to give him the honor seems perfect--but not without a hitch, it seems. Apparently Governor Tim Pawlenty (whose last name seems like a lovely three-syllable way of saying "plenty") vetoed, not the appointment of Bly itself, but the position of Poet Laureate, which the legislature had re-established. Pawlenty was quoted as opining,
"Even though we have a state 'folklorist,' I also have concern this will lead to calls for other similar positions. We could also see requests for a state mime, interpretive dancer or potter."
Apparently the governor intended this argument to be one opposed to the Poet Laureate position, but it is more easily interpreted as an argument in favor. How splendid to have a state mime, a state dancer, and a state potter! These are the sorts of positions that would improve one's view of government. And how amusing to see journalists attempting to interview the state mime!
Anyway, the governor relented, or had his veto over-ridden or rode hard and put away wet, or something.
The first Poet Laureate of Minnesota was Margarette Ball Dickson, I have learned.
More information:
Link
How many votes does it take to get elected governor of Minnesota? Puh-lenty!
Poet Laureate of Kentucky
I haven't spent a lot of time in Kentucky. I think I paused in Louisville's airport once, and I seem to remember (or remember the illusion) that when I attended a convention in Cincinnati, I crossed a bridge in a suburb and took up momentary residence in Kentucky. But I carried no letters of transit, alas.
In addition, my parents' eclectic bookshelf contained a novel called The Kentucky Rifle, which was well suited to my reading interests at one point.
All of which is an irrelevant introduction to the fact that Gurney Norman is the Poet Laureate of the Commonwealth of Kentucky, and apparently among the 50 stately (or statish) entities in the U.S., 4 are commonwealths, not states. What's the difference? I'll need to get back to you on that one.
Here is a link to an article about Gurney Norman's appointment some 5-6 months ago:
Gurney Norman
In addition, my parents' eclectic bookshelf contained a novel called The Kentucky Rifle, which was well suited to my reading interests at one point.
All of which is an irrelevant introduction to the fact that Gurney Norman is the Poet Laureate of the Commonwealth of Kentucky, and apparently among the 50 stately (or statish) entities in the U.S., 4 are commonwealths, not states. What's the difference? I'll need to get back to you on that one.
Here is a link to an article about Gurney Norman's appointment some 5-6 months ago:
Gurney Norman
Brown-Eyed Handsome Man
It seems Chuck Berry's recording of "Brown-Eyed Handsome Man" appeared in 1956, but I recall hearing it on a 75 rpm in the early 1960s. My father's second job then was tending bar at night, and sometimes he came home with 75's that had been removed from the juke box. That's how I first heard "Folsom Prison Blues," an excellent formative song for a young lad.
There's immense wit and joy in some early rock-n-roll songs, and Berry's song's an excellent example of this. There's also a lot more than meets the ear in the lyrics.
Anyway, here's a link to a video that captures a performance of the song by Robert Cray, with Mr. Berry and Keith Richards assisting. All of the verses still make me laugh. A bonus is the sub-titles.
LINK
And here is a link to an audio recording of the original:
AUDIO
Not long ago, Sun Records released a compilation of old cast-off recordings featuring Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, and Elvis Presley goofing around in the Sun Records studio [which one may still see as it was in Memphis], and over the course of several cuts, they mess around with "Brown Eyed Handsome Man," and it's clear the song is one they wished they'd written. As Mr. Berry did in the original recording, they pronounce "Milo" [Venus de Milo, or 'Milo Venus,' in the song] "Marlo." Charming. "Milo Venus was a beautiful lass./ She had the world in the palms of her hands./She lost both her arms in a 'rasslin' match/To get a brown-eyed handsome man--she fought and won herself a brown-eyed handsome man."
There's immense wit and joy in some early rock-n-roll songs, and Berry's song's an excellent example of this. There's also a lot more than meets the ear in the lyrics.
Anyway, here's a link to a video that captures a performance of the song by Robert Cray, with Mr. Berry and Keith Richards assisting. All of the verses still make me laugh. A bonus is the sub-titles.
LINK
And here is a link to an audio recording of the original:
AUDIO
Not long ago, Sun Records released a compilation of old cast-off recordings featuring Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, and Elvis Presley goofing around in the Sun Records studio [which one may still see as it was in Memphis], and over the course of several cuts, they mess around with "Brown Eyed Handsome Man," and it's clear the song is one they wished they'd written. As Mr. Berry did in the original recording, they pronounce "Milo" [Venus de Milo, or 'Milo Venus,' in the song] "Marlo." Charming. "Milo Venus was a beautiful lass./ She had the world in the palms of her hands./She lost both her arms in a 'rasslin' match/To get a brown-eyed handsome man--she fought and won herself a brown-eyed handsome man."
South Dakota's Poet Laureate
If anyone asks you today who South Dakota's Poet Laureate is, you'll be ready with the right answer: David Allan Evans.
This sort of thing happens to me all the time. I'll be standing in line at a cafe, and a complete stranger will come up and ask me who the Poet Laureate of Iceland is. I usually stall for time and say, "You know, I think there may be an interim Laureate in Iceland."
South Dakota's first Poet Laureate was appointed in 1937. His name? Charles "Badger" Clark. What a great nickname, assuming that wasn't his given middle name. T.S. Eliot had at least two nicknames--"Possum" or "Old Possum" and "tse tse," as in fly--given to him by Pound, I think. I'm giving the nod to "Badger" in this contest.
For more information about South Dakota's Laureate-situation, please follow the . . .
LINK
This sort of thing happens to me all the time. I'll be standing in line at a cafe, and a complete stranger will come up and ask me who the Poet Laureate of Iceland is. I usually stall for time and say, "You know, I think there may be an interim Laureate in Iceland."
South Dakota's first Poet Laureate was appointed in 1937. His name? Charles "Badger" Clark. What a great nickname, assuming that wasn't his given middle name. T.S. Eliot had at least two nicknames--"Possum" or "Old Possum" and "tse tse," as in fly--given to him by Pound, I think. I'm giving the nod to "Badger" in this contest.
For more information about South Dakota's Laureate-situation, please follow the . . .
LINK
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Flirting With Permanence
The blogger http://daisylacy.blogspot.com/ invited a poem concerning the topic of her blog: flirting. So I flirted with the idea and came up with a poem, and you should, too, of course.
Flirting With Permanence
You may consider flirting to be like the whisper
of butterfly wings in a flower’s ear or the light
touch of infinite possibility when skin brushes
skin. I’ve been sent to remind you, when the
time comes, to flirt with your long-space
companion, your spouse, the main squizzle,
that one to whom you plighted all the troth
you could muster, lo these many groovitudinous
moons ago. After many a season,
the faithful swan still flirts. Sure, anybody
can play at romance with strangers and
newly-mets in an amateur’s hour
of quips and blinking, glances
and sinking sight-lines. More’s required
of those who would flirt with them whom
they know, with those what’s seen practically
every flirtational tactic--all the plays and their
variations under the bodacious sun. Yes:
how to make eyes and otherwise surprise
a long-loved lover? That’s the question,
and if you’re a crafty pro-amateur, you
know the answer and flirt all right already
with the belle or beau you first flirted with
longtemps ageau. To tease pleasingly
a person you permanently love summons
a certain sagacious whimsy from you—
when the time comes, as I say,
and after it's stayed.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2009
Flirting With Permanence
You may consider flirting to be like the whisper
of butterfly wings in a flower’s ear or the light
touch of infinite possibility when skin brushes
skin. I’ve been sent to remind you, when the
time comes, to flirt with your long-space
companion, your spouse, the main squizzle,
that one to whom you plighted all the troth
you could muster, lo these many groovitudinous
moons ago. After many a season,
the faithful swan still flirts. Sure, anybody
can play at romance with strangers and
newly-mets in an amateur’s hour
of quips and blinking, glances
and sinking sight-lines. More’s required
of those who would flirt with them whom
they know, with those what’s seen practically
every flirtational tactic--all the plays and their
variations under the bodacious sun. Yes:
how to make eyes and otherwise surprise
a long-loved lover? That’s the question,
and if you’re a crafty pro-amateur, you
know the answer and flirt all right already
with the belle or beau you first flirted with
longtemps ageau. To tease pleasingly
a person you permanently love summons
a certain sagacious whimsy from you—
when the time comes, as I say,
and after it's stayed.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Reflections From Mississippi
Patricia Neely-Dorsey writes from Mississippi to inform us that her book of poems, Reflections of Mississippi Magnolia-A Life in Poems, has been published. It is available from . . .
www.reeds.ms/books.asp
And the native of Tupelo also maintains the blog . . .
http://www.patricianeelydorsey.blogspot.com/
www.reeds.ms/books.asp
And the native of Tupelo also maintains the blog . . .
http://www.patricianeelydorsey.blogspot.com/
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Poetry, Technology, and Florida's Poet Laureate
The position of Poet Laureate in Florida comes with bad news and good news. The bad news is that it is an unpaid position. The good news is that there is no limit to the term.
Dr. Edmund Skellings is the Poet Laureate of Florida, and his biography is rare. Teaching at different Florida universities, he has offered such traditional courses as those in Shakespeare and Understanding Poetry, but at the same time, he was genuinely a pioneer in technology and the arts & humanities. For some details,including titles of Skellings' works, please see the . . .
Skellings Link
Dr. Edmund Skellings is the Poet Laureate of Florida, and his biography is rare. Teaching at different Florida universities, he has offered such traditional courses as those in Shakespeare and Understanding Poetry, but at the same time, he was genuinely a pioneer in technology and the arts & humanities. For some details,including titles of Skellings' works, please see the . . .
Skellings Link
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Essay on Pakastani Literature
Here is a link to an interesting essay Jahane Rumi on contemporary Pakastani literature:
http://www.razarumi.com/2009/03/26/contemporary-pakistani-literature-in-the-%E2%80%98age-of-terror%E2%80%99/
http://www.razarumi.com/2009/03/26/contemporary-pakistani-literature-in-the-%E2%80%98age-of-terror%E2%80%99/
Jamaican Writer Geoffrey Philp Wins Award
Fellow blogger Poéfrika has posted news about a prize going to Jamaican writer Geoffrey Philp:
http://poefrika.blogspot.com/2009/11/geoffrey-philp-wins-daily-news-prize.html
http://poefrika.blogspot.com/2009/11/geoffrey-philp-wins-daily-news-prize.html
Poet Laureate of North Dakota
Larry Woiwode is the poet laureate of North Dakota. He is also a novelist. Here is a link to more information:
http://www.loc.gov/rr/main/poets/northdakota.html
http://www.loc.gov/rr/main/poets/northdakota.html
Accra, Ghana; and Belo Horizonte, Brazil
According to data accompanying the "Vistors' Map" of the blog, computers in Accra, Ghana, and Belo Horizonte, Brazil, have passed by Poet's Musings.
Accra is on the coast of Ghana. Here is one photo from there--of Kwame Nkrumah Park:
And here is a photo of a place in Belo Horizonte, Brazil, which is situated in eastern Brazil and the metropolitan area of which includes approximately 6 million people:
Accra is on the coast of Ghana. Here is one photo from there--of Kwame Nkrumah Park:
And here is a photo of a place in Belo Horizonte, Brazil, which is situated in eastern Brazil and the metropolitan area of which includes approximately 6 million people:
Winter's Mixed Results
*
*
*
*
*
*
Winter's Mixed Results
Snow to rain and back to snow
again. Then comes just cold,
which freezes slush and snow
and mud. At last we're slowed
down and up, our feet and wheels
and winged chariots set back
to sluggish paces, in some cases
even stopped by frozen slop
of slush and snow and mud.
This weather lurks beneath
the mean temperature. We're
put in a mercury-mood--heavy,
gray, not quite solid, depressed
by cold. After thaw, abrasive
rains scour streets. Hard wind
mutters under eaves, in
gaps between urban structures.
We escape again into feverish
bustling and maniacal toil, into
a flow of routine we hold, dear.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
*
*
Winter's Mixed Results
Snow to rain and back to snow
again. Then comes just cold,
which freezes slush and snow
and mud. At last we're slowed
down and up, our feet and wheels
and winged chariots set back
to sluggish paces, in some cases
even stopped by frozen slop
of slush and snow and mud.
This weather lurks beneath
the mean temperature. We're
put in a mercury-mood--heavy,
gray, not quite solid, depressed
by cold. After thaw, abrasive
rains scour streets. Hard wind
mutters under eaves, in
gaps between urban structures.
We escape again into feverish
bustling and maniacal toil, into
a flow of routine we hold, dear.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Monday, November 23, 2009
On "Howl"
I still teach Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" (as opposed to someone else's "Howl?) in most poetry-writing and modern/contemporary American poetry courses I offer. It's a great example of a protest poem, and of "prophetic" poetic rhetoric going at least as far back as the Hebrew Bible. At the same time, it is squarely (not in the Beat sense of the term) in the tradition of Whitman and Jeffers, in the context of American poetry.
Not without its problems? Of course. As bad as Ginsberg and compatriots may have had it in the 1950s, others had it worse, so occasionally students, with good reason, ask, "Was it really all that bad?" Also, it is a dense poem. It asks patience. But that can be a good time.
I also like to teach the poem as one that gives the effect of a spontaneous "rant" but that is actually carefully crafted. And of course it is a crucial poem in the context of gay and lesbian literature.
I would cease teaching it if students seemed disengaged from it, but they still seem to find a purchase or two in the poem. They like to discuss it, critique it, and learn from it, at least on my campus.
In any event, here is a link to an interesting spectrum of views, from poets and others, on "Howl"
http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/g_l/ginsberg/howl.htm
Not without its problems? Of course. As bad as Ginsberg and compatriots may have had it in the 1950s, others had it worse, so occasionally students, with good reason, ask, "Was it really all that bad?" Also, it is a dense poem. It asks patience. But that can be a good time.
I also like to teach the poem as one that gives the effect of a spontaneous "rant" but that is actually carefully crafted. And of course it is a crucial poem in the context of gay and lesbian literature.
I would cease teaching it if students seemed disengaged from it, but they still seem to find a purchase or two in the poem. They like to discuss it, critique it, and learn from it, at least on my campus.
In any event, here is a link to an interesting spectrum of views, from poets and others, on "Howl"
http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/g_l/ginsberg/howl.htm
Sunday, November 22, 2009
New Scottish Poetry
A link to several links concerning New Scottish poetry, as commissioned by the British Council:
http://www.britishcouncil.org/scotland-arts-and-culture-poets.htm
http://www.britishcouncil.org/scotland-arts-and-culture-poets.htm
Thursday, November 19, 2009
November Poems by Hood and Plath
Here is a poem by 19th century British poet Thomas Hood about November and called "November." I found it in November--on a site called, not November, but scrapbook.com, of all places. In this poem, Hood seems to play Dr. No.
November
by Thomas Hood
No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
I feel as though I should go watch an episode of "Yes, Minister," now.
Then I found an odd video "of" Sylvia Plath reading "November Graveyard"; the video actually does that strange and clumsy thing of taking a still photo and making the mouth seem to move. A bit gauche and unsettling. The poem interests me in a way that most of Plath's poems interest me: for its use of sound. With reason, many readers focus on the less than cheerful subjects and outlooks in her poems, but I've always thought her to be masterful with sound, too. The link to the . . .
Video
November
by Thomas Hood
No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
I feel as though I should go watch an episode of "Yes, Minister," now.
Then I found an odd video "of" Sylvia Plath reading "November Graveyard"; the video actually does that strange and clumsy thing of taking a still photo and making the mouth seem to move. A bit gauche and unsettling. The poem interests me in a way that most of Plath's poems interest me: for its use of sound. With reason, many readers focus on the less than cheerful subjects and outlooks in her poems, but I've always thought her to be masterful with sound, too. The link to the . . .
Video
Poems By Don Mattera
Following up on the previous post . . ., here is a link to four poems (which I enjoyed a lot) by Don Mattera, South African poet:
Mattera poems
Mattera poems
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
New South African Poets
I ran across the site, Poets On Fire, which represents a group devoted to poetry, poetry readings, spoken-word events, and so on, across the UK. A relatively recent post mentions a reading (last month) that featured four South African poets I had not heard of:
Keorapetse Kgositsile, Lebo Mashile, Don Mattera and Phillippa Yaa de Villiers.
Now I will look for some poems by these writers.
Keorapetse Kgositsile, Lebo Mashile, Don Mattera and Phillippa Yaa de Villiers.
Now I will look for some poems by these writers.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Orson Welles Reads Pasolini?
Here, apparently, is a video of Orson Welles, reading a poem by Pasolini: who knew?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Rh5d8AxvrM&feature=player_embedded
You stay classy, Orson.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Rh5d8AxvrM&feature=player_embedded
You stay classy, Orson.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Neruda's "If You Forget Me"
I enjoyed this video-dramatization of Pablo Neruda's "If You Forget Me," and I hope you do, too:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jFWfNn_Wd8
And I'm sure you have probably seen the film, Il Postino, which features Neruda as a character, played by Phillipe Noiret.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jFWfNn_Wd8
And I'm sure you have probably seen the film, Il Postino, which features Neruda as a character, played by Phillipe Noiret.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Carl Sagan on Voyager
The late Carl Sagan was so passionately rational about discoveries in space that he seemed sometimes to be speaking prose-poems, as in this short video about some of Voyager's discoveries as it moved on through the solar system:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=niKWI1AFMno&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=niKWI1AFMno&feature=related
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Wendy Francisco and Dog-Lovers
We had a genuine dog-lover over for dinner the other evening, and the next day she sent along a link to the following video that presents a song ("God and Dog") by Wendy Francisco, with illustrations,that gives equal time to dog-lovers (given my last post on cats), and that, for poets, treats "frailty" as a three-syllable word--because in the context, it needs to behave as a three-syllable word:
Wendy Francisco on God and Dog
Wendy Francisco on God and Dog
How To Be A Cat
In honor of our cat, who is now sitting in front of the television screen and staring at me in a patient but accusatory way, I am re-posting a poem from about a year and a half ago:
How To Be A Cat
Be the noble curator of your excellence, for
fate made you perfect. In all things, be precise:
standing, sitting, staring, walking, sniffing, eating,
sleeping, killing. Never look in mirrors,
which are windows for the insecure. Sleep
in a variety of comfortable places, which
were created for you alone. Make acquaintances,
never friends. The latter tend to cling.
All phenomena are potential enemies. Therefore,
stare, listen, listen, stare, sniff, stare, listen, sniff,
hide, stare, and listen. Never perform tricks. Leave
those to dogs, who need to be wanted and want
to be liked. Talk as necessary, but never just
to chit-chat. Crack the whip of feline fury as
you wish. Keep the blades of your four feet sharp
and retracted like long-held resentments. Let
your soul's motor idle and strum the taut cord
of your body. No one owns you.
God made you and likes you best. In a world
that's dubious, you are certain. You never
make mistakes. You are entitled to what
you want; otherwise, why would you want it?
No matter what else you may be undertaking,
never be reticent to stop and groom yourself,
for you are superb, and self-maintenance
doubles as self-admiration. You are a cat,
a form of beauty that enters stealthily,
naps, and agrees to be admired. You
are a cat. Everything is as it should be.
Hans Ostrom
Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom
How To Be A Cat
Be the noble curator of your excellence, for
fate made you perfect. In all things, be precise:
standing, sitting, staring, walking, sniffing, eating,
sleeping, killing. Never look in mirrors,
which are windows for the insecure. Sleep
in a variety of comfortable places, which
were created for you alone. Make acquaintances,
never friends. The latter tend to cling.
All phenomena are potential enemies. Therefore,
stare, listen, listen, stare, sniff, stare, listen, sniff,
hide, stare, and listen. Never perform tricks. Leave
those to dogs, who need to be wanted and want
to be liked. Talk as necessary, but never just
to chit-chat. Crack the whip of feline fury as
you wish. Keep the blades of your four feet sharp
and retracted like long-held resentments. Let
your soul's motor idle and strum the taut cord
of your body. No one owns you.
God made you and likes you best. In a world
that's dubious, you are certain. You never
make mistakes. You are entitled to what
you want; otherwise, why would you want it?
No matter what else you may be undertaking,
never be reticent to stop and groom yourself,
for you are superb, and self-maintenance
doubles as self-admiration. You are a cat,
a form of beauty that enters stealthily,
naps, and agrees to be admired. You
are a cat. Everything is as it should be.
Hans Ostrom
Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom
Anthology of Modern Turkish Poetry
Here is a link . . . information about EDA: An Anthology of Modern Turkish Poetry, published in 2004.
Tennessee's Poet Laureate
Margaret Britton Vaughn is Tennessee's Poet Laureate. Here is a link to an article about her and her work.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Poets Laureate In the Southwest?
As far as I have been able to determine, the Southwest of the United States is not excessively friendly to the idea of having a state poet laureate. Apparently, no such position exists in either Arizona or New Mexico.
In Texas, however, Karla Kay Morton is the state's poet laureate, and here is a link to more information about her and her writing.
In Texas, however, Karla Kay Morton is the state's poet laureate, and here is a link to more information about her and her writing.
Alaska's State Writer
Alaska's official State Writer is not the newly published Sarah Palin but Nancy Lord. The position seems to be similar to that of Poet Laureate, but maybe it's not a bad idea to open up such an office to other kinds of writers.
At any rate, here is a link to more information about Nancy Lord.
At any rate, here is a link to more information about Nancy Lord.
Race & Pedagogy Conference: Next Fall
The second national Race & Pedagogy Conference will take place on my campus next fall--on October 28, 29, 30.
Here is a link to more information.
If you are a K-12 or college teacher, a person otherwise involved in education, a scholar working in the area of race & pedagogy (and related issues), or are simply interested in the topic, please keep the conference in mind. A "Call for Papers" will go out soon.
Here is a link to more information.
If you are a K-12 or college teacher, a person otherwise involved in education, a scholar working in the area of race & pedagogy (and related issues), or are simply interested in the topic, please keep the conference in mind. A "Call for Papers" will go out soon.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A Link To A Great Poetry Site
A librarian-friend sent along the following link to the U.S. Library of Congress's poetry site, which is extensive and most satisfactorily browsable:
Link
Link
Monday, November 9, 2009
Gathering Image
The other day some students and I visited the art gallery on campus, viewed the paintings, and then found a perch and began writing--or writing toward--an eckphrastic poem, or a poem concerned with another art-form besides poetry. The title of the exhibit was "Gathering Image, Fugitive Form," and the paintings & drawings that were featured occupied a fascinating position between the abstract and the representational. There was a series of paintings focused on the image of tree limbs.
Liminal Limbs
How tree limbs form patterns
and each branch follows its
own precise, crooked line
of work: such shaping is
the fruit of species and
individual, accident and
cell-division, weather
and vegetative whim. Whatever
the outcome of bark, branch,
and twig back-grounded by
sky, a painter comes along
and lets the branches suggest
an outcome on canvas, a tale
in pigment about color
and line, a story the tall tree
is alleged to have told. So
we turn from the canvas and
look through a gallery's
window at branches, which
wind shakes and bends.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Liminal Limbs
How tree limbs form patterns
and each branch follows its
own precise, crooked line
of work: such shaping is
the fruit of species and
individual, accident and
cell-division, weather
and vegetative whim. Whatever
the outcome of bark, branch,
and twig back-grounded by
sky, a painter comes along
and lets the branches suggest
an outcome on canvas, a tale
in pigment about color
and line, a story the tall tree
is alleged to have told. So
we turn from the canvas and
look through a gallery's
window at branches, which
wind shakes and bends.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Saturday, November 7, 2009
They Say About a Poem
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They Say About A Poem
Technically a poem ought to have words
in it although a blank page beneath a
title's mighty inviting, a bit like a
snowy meadow after a day filled with
looking at city crowds. They say
about a poem that a poem should show,
not tell, and be, not mean, but others
think a poem should tow, not sell,
and, really, how can a poem that is
not be, and why can't it mean while
it's being? From poems people crave
imagery, they say, they say about
a poem, but actually all
the imagery's in their heads, put there
by literacy's reflexive response to
letters applied to a surface such
as paper or a surface such as plastic
or indeed an ear's membrane. Should
a poem have conflict? Opinions about
that bicker. I know a poem that featured
many quiet rooms where you could go to get
away from all that conflict in plays,
life, novels, factories, politics,
and movies--where you could listen
to a clock chime and watch the weird
butler straighten ancient paintings
on the walls of your personality, but
I guess that, too, is a conflict.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
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They Say About A Poem
Technically a poem ought to have words
in it although a blank page beneath a
title's mighty inviting, a bit like a
snowy meadow after a day filled with
looking at city crowds. They say
about a poem that a poem should show,
not tell, and be, not mean, but others
think a poem should tow, not sell,
and, really, how can a poem that is
not be, and why can't it mean while
it's being? From poems people crave
imagery, they say, they say about
a poem, but actually all
the imagery's in their heads, put there
by literacy's reflexive response to
letters applied to a surface such
as paper or a surface such as plastic
or indeed an ear's membrane. Should
a poem have conflict? Opinions about
that bicker. I know a poem that featured
many quiet rooms where you could go to get
away from all that conflict in plays,
life, novels, factories, politics,
and movies--where you could listen
to a clock chime and watch the weird
butler straighten ancient paintings
on the walls of your personality, but
I guess that, too, is a conflict.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A Reading of "The Unknown Citizen" By Auden
Here is a link to a reading, with a visual presentation of the text, of W.H. Auden's poem, "The Unknown Citizen":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nf1klIiCdwQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nf1klIiCdwQ
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Professor Irwin Corey, Performance Poet
I saw comedian Professor Irwin Corey often on TV when I was growing up, and I instantly took to his schtick, which was to parody the speech of politicians, scientists, and academics. His riffs are not just mocking blather, however; they're intricately timed and worded. Now that I'm a professor, I find his act even funnier. Here is a link to a recent (2008) video of Professor Corey doing his thing (and please note his hands are part of the act):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MxtN0xxzfsw&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MxtN0xxzfsw&feature=related
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Bob Dylan's Favorite Poets
The site, poets.org, includes a long essay on Bob Dylan and poetry. The essay claims that a debate about whether Dylan is a poet has "raged" for a long time. I don't think it's raged very much, and I don't think there's much of a debate, although I wouldn't care to rage about the question. He writes and records ballads, among other things, and ballads are poems. Of course, everyone has an opportunity to argue about how good the ballads (etc.) are--as popular songs or as poems or as both. But that's a separate question.
The essay mentions scholar Christopher Ricks, of course, who has written extensively in support of treating Dylan's work as poetry. A paragraph from the essay:
"Christopher Ricks, who has also penned books about T. S. Eliot and John Keats, argues that Dylan's lyrics not only qualify as poetry, but that Dylan is among the finest poets of all time, on the same level as Milton, Keats, and Tennyson. He points to Dylan's mastery of rhymes that are often startling and perfectly judged."
Also, the essay notes that among Dylan's favorite poets are Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud, and Woody Guthrie. Dylan is also said to like Smokey Robinson as a poet.
The essay mentions scholar Christopher Ricks, of course, who has written extensively in support of treating Dylan's work as poetry. A paragraph from the essay:
"Christopher Ricks, who has also penned books about T. S. Eliot and John Keats, argues that Dylan's lyrics not only qualify as poetry, but that Dylan is among the finest poets of all time, on the same level as Milton, Keats, and Tennyson. He points to Dylan's mastery of rhymes that are often startling and perfectly judged."
Also, the essay notes that among Dylan's favorite poets are Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud, and Woody Guthrie. Dylan is also said to like Smokey Robinson as a poet.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Henry David Thoreau's Favorite Song
According to author Caroline Mosley, in an article cited on http://www.amaranthpublishing.com/TomBowling.htm, Henry David Thoreau's favorite popular song was "Tom Bowling," with lyrics by Charles Dibdin. Factoring in time-travel (a form of transcendentalism, arguably), I might have guessed that HDT would have leaned in Bob Dylan's direction. Here are the "Tom Bowling" lyrics:
Tom Bowling
by Charles Dibdin
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling
The darling of the crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling
For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft,
Faithful, below he did his duty,
But now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare,
His friends were many, and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair;
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth has turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He, who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kinds and tars despatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd,
For, though his body's under hatches
His soul has gone aloft.
Tom Bowling
by Charles Dibdin
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling
The darling of the crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling
For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft,
Faithful, below he did his duty,
But now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare,
His friends were many, and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair;
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth has turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He, who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kinds and tars despatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd,
For, though his body's under hatches
His soul has gone aloft.
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