In 2004, Story Line Press published Story Hour: Contemporary American Narrative Poems, edited by Sonny Williams. The anthology includes poems by Robert Penn Warren, Elizabeth Bishop, Gwendolyn Brooks, Richard Wilbur, Etheridge Knight, George Keithley, Yusef Komunyakaa, R.S. Gwynn, Rachel Hadas, Kate Daniels, Robert McDowell, Gjertrud Schnackenberg, David Wojahn, Kim Addonizio, David Mason, Mary Jo Salter, Mary Swander, Russell Edson, Beth Joselow, Lawson Inada, George Hitchcock, Philip Levine, Garrett Hongo, and many other poets (325 pages).
Here is a link to more information about the book:
Narrative Poems
Monday, March 1, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
What The Trees Mean
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What The Trees Mean
The redwood trees mean I can stop
worrying about how important my work
is. When my toil's results are compost,
redwoods will still be. A manzanita
bush means tenacity. Fire propagates
this species, no kidding. The beech
tree says something about peace. Listen.
Old scraggly scrub-pines report that
not every conifer can be a celebrity.
I just might patrol a leafy avenue
in this city or that, or wander into
a copse, maybe drop into an old forest.
Maybe I'll read more trees, see
what stories they suggest.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Short, Ornery Month
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Short, Ornery Month
Skies got blue-black all
of a sudden: one of February's
traits. Wind behave like a cold
saw. A robin perched on the roof
of something gray, looked chilled
and bewildered: migrating too soon?
Change is difficult or too easy,
slow or too fast. Consider the planet,
hunks o its huge hide constantly
contending. Ask the powerless. They
know about less-than-optimal. Or
interview February in your hometown
and deal with its difficult answers.
Maybe that's why they cut this month
short a few days back then. Maybe indeed
the moon preferred March's attitude.
Copyright February 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Short, Ornery Month
Skies got blue-black all
of a sudden: one of February's
traits. Wind behave like a cold
saw. A robin perched on the roof
of something gray, looked chilled
and bewildered: migrating too soon?
Change is difficult or too easy,
slow or too fast. Consider the planet,
hunks o its huge hide constantly
contending. Ask the powerless. They
know about less-than-optimal. Or
interview February in your hometown
and deal with its difficult answers.
Maybe that's why they cut this month
short a few days back then. Maybe indeed
the moon preferred March's attitude.
Copyright February 2010 Hans Ostrom
Saturday, February 27, 2010
What Is Happening
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What Is Happening
The universe passes through you, so there's
that to ponder as you wait to get your teeth
drilled or to be told you're not right for
the job for which you're right. Light
form stars they claim are dead settles
on your retinae, goes somewhere, has to.
Then there's the oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon
we process. My friends, we're sieves and filters.
We're right for the job. Life passes through
us and we through it. Atoms maniacally rearrange.
Wind in aspens, wind in hair. Galaxies
spiral as you sit in a chair.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Different Isn't Stupid
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Different Isn't Stupid
Different from you isn't necessarily
stupid and may well be a kind of smart
you'd do well to study, as you study, if
you will study, yourself. Will you?
Hey, your judge-o-meter's really
wound up--too many rpm's, reactions
per moment. Do you smell smoke? Hey,
consider your own patch of ground:
not perfect, yes? Maybe it is even
stupid in someone's eyes. Have you
noticed the wise? They judge--well,
judiciously. Reticently. Come now,
let us speak of what we know,
and of how little we know.
That's better. That's not stupid.
That is better.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Different Isn't Stupid
Different from you isn't necessarily
stupid and may well be a kind of smart
you'd do well to study, as you study, if
you will study, yourself. Will you?
Hey, your judge-o-meter's really
wound up--too many rpm's, reactions
per moment. Do you smell smoke? Hey,
consider your own patch of ground:
not perfect, yes? Maybe it is even
stupid in someone's eyes. Have you
noticed the wise? They judge--well,
judiciously. Reticently. Come now,
let us speak of what we know,
and of how little we know.
That's better. That's not stupid.
That is better.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Clear A Place For Good
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Clear a Place For Good
Make room for something good to happen. Clear
a place--there, perhaps, on a purple divan; or
here, on a warm, flat rock. Yes, of course,
nothing good may arrive, in which case you
may occupy the place yourself and call it good.
You may watch as something good happens in that
space you just vacated. It doesn't always work
this way. Still, make some room. Some room for good.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Friday, February 26, 2010
Johnny Cash's Birthday
Johnny Cash would have been 78 today--an amusing number to me because I first heard his recordings via 78 rpm records my father brought home from a saloon in the High Sierra. A carpenter and stone mason by day, my father took a second job tending bar, and when it was time to replace records in the jukebox, he brought the discards home--including the 78's of "Folsom Prison Blues" and "Ballad of a Teenage Queen." Young as I was, I sensed immediately the uniqueness of Cash's voice, style, and persona. I still can't think of another artist who occupies a niche between African American delta music, Appalachian folk music, electrified country music of the 1950s, and Memphis rockabilly so originally and so forcefully; there was also more than a hint of reggae and ska in what he produced sometimes (he owned a house in Jamaica). I also think he had a great ear and eye for the poetry of popular lyrics, and he seemed unamused by lyrics from the ultra-commercial pop and Nashville machines. He did, however, like to sell records himself; no doubt about that. A link to "his" site:
Johnny Cash
Stellar Nucleosynthesis
Below is a link to an obituary of Geoffrey Burbidge, who helped to define stellar nucleosynthesis. Apparently, Burbidge did not favor the Big Bang Theory but instead speculated that the universe has always existed.
Burbidge
Burbidge
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Roger Bobo on the Tuba; or, Apropros of Bobo
It's a glum, soggy day in the Pacific Northwest--after some days of glorious sunshine. One student said, "I don't even want to discuss the weather."
Another student--not apropos of the weather--recommended the music of Roger Bobbo, who plays the tuba.
I found a video of Bobo playing on the Tonight Show, with Carson. Carson was interesting that way; he'd have unexpected acts on.
Anyway, Bobo's rendition of "Carnival In Venice" is a sunny one:
Carnival of Venice--Bobo
Another student--not apropos of the weather--recommended the music of Roger Bobbo, who plays the tuba.
I found a video of Bobo playing on the Tonight Show, with Carson. Carson was interesting that way; he'd have unexpected acts on.
Anyway, Bobo's rendition of "Carnival In Venice" is a sunny one:
Carnival of Venice--Bobo
Poetry Is Alive and Well
Here is a link to a nice essay by Donald Hall, "Death to the Death of Poetry"
Hall on poetry
I don't know the extent to which other nations/cultures engage in hand-wringing about the death of poetry, but I suspect American hand-wringing on this issue is more prevalent.
Hall on poetry
I don't know the extent to which other nations/cultures engage in hand-wringing about the death of poetry, but I suspect American hand-wringing on this issue is more prevalent.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Poetry From Captain Beefheart
I have to (well, I don't really have to) admit I'm partial to eccentric entertainers like Captain Beefheart, chiefly because of the off-beat wit, but also because they seem to resist the slots and categories of "culture." Another name Captain Beefheart has used is Don Van Vliet, is that right?
Here is a link to some poems by Captain Beefheart:
Beefheart poems
Here is a link to some poems by Captain Beefheart:
Beefheart poems
Monday, February 22, 2010
Community Colleges and Poetry
. . . And here is a link to U.S. Poet Laureate Kay Ryan's poetry project, which includes work with community colleges:
Kay Ryan/Community Colleges
I must now hail Sierra College, the community college I attended way back when. Thanks especially to several fine English teachers there and one fine philosophy teacher, from whom I took a two-semester history of philosophy course.
Kay Ryan/Community Colleges
I must now hail Sierra College, the community college I attended way back when. Thanks especially to several fine English teachers there and one fine philosophy teacher, from whom I took a two-semester history of philosophy course.
Library of Congress Site: Black History Month
Here is a link to a "page" on the U.S. Library of Congress site that describes a variety of projects, exhibits, and archives connected to Black History Month:
Library of Congress
Library of Congress
Friday, February 19, 2010
Southeastern Kansas
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Southeastern Kansas
Grains of agrarian
patience sway, shimmer,
shall become bread
of memory. Clouds
have purchased sky.
Prairie is lightning-
lacerated. Grassy
hills take as long
to curve as they will.
Expanse fascinates.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Southeastern Kansas
Grains of agrarian
patience sway, shimmer,
shall become bread
of memory. Clouds
have purchased sky.
Prairie is lightning-
lacerated. Grassy
hills take as long
to curve as they will.
Expanse fascinates.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Great Site for International Poetry
Here's a link to a fine site for contemporary poetry around the world:
International Poetry Web
Once there, you may simply select a country from the drop-down menu, go to that page, and find dozens of poets.
Great stuff.
International Poetry Web
Once there, you may simply select a country from the drop-down menu, go to that page, and find dozens of poets.
Great stuff.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Say There's A Ship
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Say There's A Ship
Say there's a ship we can take out
on the sea of our lives. Say we can
cast nets and lines and thus retrieve
sources of regret, despair, haul them
on board, apologize, repair--make things
right. Tell it so we can find
unrecoverable people out there. They stand
or sit in boats, close enough to see,
to hail. Make it so that ocean's not just
time or loss, memory or change, failure or
death. We know that sort of ocean well.
Talk about the joy we'll feel. Describe
the laughter, redemptive weeping, songs
and delight. Now a harder part: tell us
how to get there. Please tell us how
to go down to that ship, get on.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Say There's A Ship
Say there's a ship we can take out
on the sea of our lives. Say we can
cast nets and lines and thus retrieve
sources of regret, despair, haul them
on board, apologize, repair--make things
right. Tell it so we can find
unrecoverable people out there. They stand
or sit in boats, close enough to see,
to hail. Make it so that ocean's not just
time or loss, memory or change, failure or
death. We know that sort of ocean well.
Talk about the joy we'll feel. Describe
the laughter, redemptive weeping, songs
and delight. Now a harder part: tell us
how to get there. Please tell us how
to go down to that ship, get on.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Hughes and Hurston on Haiti
Haiti's being in the news, to understate things awfully much, has reminded me that two Harlem Renaissance authors, Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston, developed a great interest in that nation.
An anthropologist as well as a fiction-writer, Hurston wrote the study: Tell My Horse: Voodoo and Life in Haiti and Jamaica. It was reissued in 2008.
Hughes wrote a play, Troubled Island, which concerns the Haitian rebel leader, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, who helped defeat the army Napoleon had sent to Haiti and who later became emperor of Haiti. His dates are 1758-1806. Later, the composer William Grant Still and Hughes (as librettist) collaborated on the opera, Troubled Island.
An anthropologist as well as a fiction-writer, Hurston wrote the study: Tell My Horse: Voodoo and Life in Haiti and Jamaica. It was reissued in 2008.
Hughes wrote a play, Troubled Island, which concerns the Haitian rebel leader, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, who helped defeat the army Napoleon had sent to Haiti and who later became emperor of Haiti. His dates are 1758-1806. Later, the composer William Grant Still and Hughes (as librettist) collaborated on the opera, Troubled Island.
Evening Hatch
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Evening Hatch
An evening hatch of gnats rose from the river
in a cloud. One gnat flew to a blue bluff,
landed there, pushed against infinite,
immovable stone mass. The gnat
fell away and down toward a pool,
out of which erupted a rainbow trout,
which snatched and swallowed the gnat.
I will have had less effect on things than
this gnat. It's good to meditate on that.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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Evening Hatch
An evening hatch of gnats rose from the river
in a cloud. One gnat flew to a blue bluff,
landed there, pushed against infinite,
immovable stone mass. The gnat
fell away and down toward a pool,
out of which erupted a rainbow trout,
which snatched and swallowed the gnat.
I will have had less effect on things than
this gnat. It's good to meditate on that.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Lucille Clifton Passes
It is sad that poet Lucille Clifton passed on a few days ago. She was a poet of great wit and insight.
Here are two links to more information about her, one a recent article following her death, the other from poets. org:
Clifton article
Clifton on Poets.org
This is a good day to re-read some of her poems.
Here are two links to more information about her, one a recent article following her death, the other from poets. org:
Clifton article
Clifton on Poets.org
This is a good day to re-read some of her poems.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Black History Quiz and Africlassical.com
Should you have a hankering to take a quiz on Black history, then here's a link you might like to follow:
Black History Quiz
The quiz appears on the site, Africlassical.com, which explores the African and African American presence in classical music.
The site has a companion blog, which (finally, the self-serving part) kindly mentioned an upcoming musical program I helped to put together. Actually, the site borrowed a notice from another blog (thanks, Professor O'Neil)--ah, the complications of the web.
Langston Hughes/Awilda Verdejo
Black History Quiz
The quiz appears on the site, Africlassical.com, which explores the African and African American presence in classical music.
The site has a companion blog, which (finally, the self-serving part) kindly mentioned an upcoming musical program I helped to put together. Actually, the site borrowed a notice from another blog (thanks, Professor O'Neil)--ah, the complications of the web.
Langston Hughes/Awilda Verdejo
Friday, February 12, 2010
President Clinton Reads "The Concord Hymn"
Here is a link to a video of President Clinton reading Ralph Waldo Emerson's "The Concord Hymn," as part of the "Favorite Poem" project:
Clinton reads Concord Hymn
It was good to hear that the former President is doing well after a visit to the hospital.
As to his other poetic tastes, the CBS site includes The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats on his list of favorite books.
Clinton reads Concord Hymn
It was good to hear that the former President is doing well after a visit to the hospital.
As to his other poetic tastes, the CBS site includes The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats on his list of favorite books.
African American Crime Fiction
Probably like most of you, I've been reading detective fiction since I was in my early teens. I think I received the Doubleday collected Holmes stories as a gift from my parents when I was about 16.
Later, I wrote and published one mystery novel, featuring a rural sheriff as the detective.
And I've taught a class on detective fiction a few times. One interesting aspect of such a class is that you get some students who take simply because they have been reading in the genre independent of "school" work. In a sense they are connoisseurs.
Now I'm considering developing a course on African American detective fiction, or at least I'm taking steps toward the consideration. In the process, I discovered a few recent anthologies, including
African American Crime and Mystery Stories, edited by Eleanor Taylor Bland. I'm enjoying it a lot. Here's a link:
anthology
Later, I wrote and published one mystery novel, featuring a rural sheriff as the detective.
And I've taught a class on detective fiction a few times. One interesting aspect of such a class is that you get some students who take simply because they have been reading in the genre independent of "school" work. In a sense they are connoisseurs.
Now I'm considering developing a course on African American detective fiction, or at least I'm taking steps toward the consideration. In the process, I discovered a few recent anthologies, including
African American Crime and Mystery Stories, edited by Eleanor Taylor Bland. I'm enjoying it a lot. Here's a link:
anthology
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Links To African American Poets
Here is site that provides a wealth of online links to information about African American poets:
Black poets
Black poets
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Duke Takes The "A" Train
A nice video--for Black History Month or any month--of Duke Ellington playing "Take the A Train":
Duke Ellington
Duke Ellington
William Blake and Soccer
Below is a link to a great short film on youtube that combines football (of the soccer variety) and the poetry of William Blake. I think you'll like this:
Blake Press Conference
Blake Press Conference
"Awful Library Books": A Most Amusing Blog
A link on the The Scrapper Poet's blog alerted me to the amusing blog, "Awful Library Books," which I hope you'll enjoy, too:
ALB
ALB
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Eugene Lipscomb
As I was getting ready to have a couple friends over for the Super Bowl (more chat than Super Bowl, truth to tell), I thought, for some reason, of Randall Jarrell's elegy for the professional football player Eugene "Big Daddy" Lipscomb, who played professionally for Baltimore, L.A., and Pittsburgh teams but who died of a heroin overdose in 1963. I don't think that in '63 I was really much aware of professional football, but I distinctly remember the name "Big Daddy Lipscomb," which I found enchanting, partly for the sound of it.
Anyway, below is a link to Jarrell's poem, "Say Goodbye to Big Daddy." The page starts with a sports poems by William Carlos Williams, so you just have to scroll down a bit once you're there.
Big Daddy Lipscomb Poem
Anyway, below is a link to Jarrell's poem, "Say Goodbye to Big Daddy." The page starts with a sports poems by William Carlos Williams, so you just have to scroll down a bit once you're there.
Big Daddy Lipscomb Poem
Errant
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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
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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
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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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