Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Adam and Jack, Jill and Eve
{
{
{
{
Jack and Jill in Eden
Jack and Jill
went up the hill
and ended up
in Eden.
Jack looked 'round.
And so did Jill.
A few stray goats
were feeding.
Jack looked at Jill.
There she stood.
Jack said to Jill,
"You're looking good."
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
{
{
{
Jack and Jill in Eden
Jack and Jill
went up the hill
and ended up
in Eden.
Jack looked 'round.
And so did Jill.
A few stray goats
were feeding.
Jack looked at Jill.
There she stood.
Jack said to Jill,
"You're looking good."
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Poets and Society
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/
/
/
Poets and Society
Society doesn't owe the poet
anything. Even if it did,
what leverage does the poet
have to collect what's due?
Do poets owe society
anything? If they want
something from or for
society, then they owe
society poetry that
satisfies something in
parts of that mass. Other-
wise, poets are free. Free
to be sojourners of the
interior, dedicated to
introspection; and to inspection
of the exterior--if they
so choose. Society will
support a relatively few
poets (chosen from a list)
at a time--a mere gesture.
The rest are on their own.
(How wonderful to be on
one's own.) They follow
their own way, which may
(but may not) feature
a sense of
duty to others. Poets owe
themselves poetry.
Hans Ostrom Copyright 2011
/
/
/
Poets and Society
Society doesn't owe the poet
anything. Even if it did,
what leverage does the poet
have to collect what's due?
Do poets owe society
anything? If they want
something from or for
society, then they owe
society poetry that
satisfies something in
parts of that mass. Other-
wise, poets are free. Free
to be sojourners of the
interior, dedicated to
introspection; and to inspection
of the exterior--if they
so choose. Society will
support a relatively few
poets (chosen from a list)
at a time--a mere gesture.
The rest are on their own.
(How wonderful to be on
one's own.) They follow
their own way, which may
(but may not) feature
a sense of
duty to others. Poets owe
themselves poetry.
Hans Ostrom Copyright 2011
Crows, Contented
^
>
<
^
Crows, Contented
Each time crows
gather I
get glad. They
focus.
They are black.
Their
feathers shine. They
look forward.
Have brows.
Are big
and awkward and
deft and smart.
They
glide well.
They
are not satisfied.
I do sense,
though,
that crows
are
contented
with their
determined
irascibility, their
conflicts
with each other and
the world. And
such nests they build.
Hans Ostrom 2011 Copyright
>
<
^
Crows, Contented
Each time crows
gather I
get glad. They
focus.
They are black.
Their
feathers shine. They
look forward.
Have brows.
Are big
and awkward and
deft and smart.
They
glide well.
They
are not satisfied.
I do sense,
though,
that crows
are
contented
with their
determined
irascibility, their
conflicts
with each other and
the world. And
such nests they build.
Hans Ostrom 2011 Copyright
Sunday, February 13, 2011
A Spinoza/Rubber Bands Re-Post
So someone in the Netherlands re-posted something from this blog--a brief homage to my favorite philosopher, Spinoza, followed by a poem I'd written about rubber bands and in which I mentioned Baruch--or Benedict.
A Spinoza/Rubber Bands re-positng doesn't happen every day. Well, at least not to me. Yes, yes, I know there are more pressing matters out there, but still: Spinoza, rubber bands, re-posting.
And thanks to those folks in the Netherlands.
A Spinoza/Rubber Bands re-positng doesn't happen every day. Well, at least not to me. Yes, yes, I know there are more pressing matters out there, but still: Spinoza, rubber bands, re-posting.
And thanks to those folks in the Netherlands.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Tired of Talking About Race? Really?
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]
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Tired
Some white folks sometimes say,
"I'm tired of talking about race."
I'd get tired of hearing them say
that and other things about race--
except then I say to myself, Tired?
Really? Try 300 years of slavery,
then getting emancipated into
the terrors of Jim Crow and the
Klan, then 60 more years, and
counting, of endless bullshit.
I've not yet met a Black man
in the U.S. who hasn't been
stopped by the police only
because he's Black. Some
white folks need to warp
who their president is so
desperately, they'll believe
anything--or say anything
to to those who will believe
anything. This isn't about
politics. It's about something
much deeper and even more
awful than politics. Speaking
of which, I know
this smart man in the South who
knows his politics, I mean
real politics, knows it cold. He's
white. Twice he's told me,
"If it weren't for race, there'd
be no Republican Party in the South."
So,when I think I might be
tired of what some white
folks say when they use
"tired" as an excuse not
to engage, I think, Really?
Tired? You're tired? Well,
what do you know?
]
]
]
Tired
Some white folks sometimes say,
"I'm tired of talking about race."
I'd get tired of hearing them say
that and other things about race--
except then I say to myself, Tired?
Really? Try 300 years of slavery,
then getting emancipated into
the terrors of Jim Crow and the
Klan, then 60 more years, and
counting, of endless bullshit.
I've not yet met a Black man
in the U.S. who hasn't been
stopped by the police only
because he's Black. Some
white folks need to warp
who their president is so
desperately, they'll believe
anything--or say anything
to to those who will believe
anything. This isn't about
politics. It's about something
much deeper and even more
awful than politics. Speaking
of which, I know
this smart man in the South who
knows his politics, I mean
real politics, knows it cold. He's
white. Twice he's told me,
"If it weren't for race, there'd
be no Republican Party in the South."
So,when I think I might be
tired of what some white
folks say when they use
"tired" as an excuse not
to engage, I think, Really?
Tired? You're tired? Well,
what do you know?
Friends Black and White
[
[
[
[
Friends Black and White
History made us Black.
History made us White.
Anyway, my wife and I
(history made us White)
invited three friends over
(history made them Black),
women. We five laughed
all night, it seemed. Sure,
we talked about some serious
stuff. One of the friends said,
"I'm about to tell you some
sad shit." But mostly we laughed.
Teased each other.
One of the women asked me
what I was up to, as I'm always
up to something. "Among other
things, I'm writing blues lyrics--
but," I added, "white guy--blues
lyrics?--I don't know . . . ." She
said, "It's okay. You're on the list."
And we laughed.
History made two of us White.
History made three of us Black.
We made us friends. I mean,
real friends. It takes some work:
friendship--hell, you know that.
You have to want it. You have
to know your histories. You
have to like to laugh and know
when not to laugh, as when somebody's
telling you some sad shit. You
have to want to learn, especially
if History made you White.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
[
[
[
Friends Black and White
History made us Black.
History made us White.
Anyway, my wife and I
(history made us White)
invited three friends over
(history made them Black),
women. We five laughed
all night, it seemed. Sure,
we talked about some serious
stuff. One of the friends said,
"I'm about to tell you some
sad shit." But mostly we laughed.
Teased each other.
One of the women asked me
what I was up to, as I'm always
up to something. "Among other
things, I'm writing blues lyrics--
but," I added, "white guy--blues
lyrics?--I don't know . . . ." She
said, "It's okay. You're on the list."
And we laughed.
History made two of us White.
History made three of us Black.
We made us friends. I mean,
real friends. It takes some work:
friendship--hell, you know that.
You have to want it. You have
to know your histories. You
have to like to laugh and know
when not to laugh, as when somebody's
telling you some sad shit. You
have to want to learn, especially
if History made you White.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Recommended Film: Two Indians Talking
Two Indians Talking is a new independent Canadian film directed by Sara McIntyre and written by Andrew Genaille. It's deftly directed, understated film about what it says it's about: two Cree Indians talking about life, love, right and wrong, beliefs, aspirations, and especially their people. The conversations occur as the two wait for reinforcements are supposed to help them block a major highway as a way of advocating for tribal rights and title.
Nathaniel Arcand plays Nathan, who is heading toward 30 if not already there. He dropped out of high school and has given up on his dream of being a famous musician. He is, however, savvier than he pretends to be. His main interests are women and looking out for the best interests of his people.
Justin Rain plays Adam, a kind of prototypical gifted child who eventually went off to college. He's well read and opinionated, fierce in his own way, but also a shy loner who is less certain of his views than he pretends to be. He's the reluctant participant in the impending protest, caught between the instinct to live life through gaining knowledge and the necessity to fight back by means of activism. Adam and Nathan are cousins but the dynamic of their relationship is more like that of younger and older brother.
There are faint echoes of My Dinner With Andre, from back in the day, but these conversations are earthier, less pretentious, and well grounded in the predicament of the Cree in Canada. Nonetheless, Nietzsche plays more than a cameo role, thanks to Adam and his philosophical bent.
A lot of droll, wry humor threads itself through Adam's and Nathan's bickering and reminiscences as the film develops toward its denouement.
The actor Sam Bob also injects a superb comic performance about two-thirds of the way through. He appears to be the sum total of the reinforcements but assures Adam and Nathan that "one Cree is all it takes."
Denyc and Ashley Harry also turn in strong performances as two young Cree women who drop by to see the lads. Denyc plays Tara, who matches Adam opinion for opinion. Sara McIntyre's careful direction brings out the best in these and other scenes.
The film is, among other things, perfectly suited to college classes in Canada and the U.S. that focus on the situation of contemporary Indians, aboriginal peoples, multi-ethnic issues, and independent film-making.
Two Indians Talking has already won awards from the Vancouver International Film Festival and the Winnipeg Aboriginal Film Festival. It will also be featured at the Victoria B.C. film festival, and this weekend, Sara McIntyre (and the film) will visit the Spokane Film Festival; she will be there February 11 and 12.
Here is a link to the facebook page for the film.
Nathaniel Arcand plays Nathan, who is heading toward 30 if not already there. He dropped out of high school and has given up on his dream of being a famous musician. He is, however, savvier than he pretends to be. His main interests are women and looking out for the best interests of his people.
Justin Rain plays Adam, a kind of prototypical gifted child who eventually went off to college. He's well read and opinionated, fierce in his own way, but also a shy loner who is less certain of his views than he pretends to be. He's the reluctant participant in the impending protest, caught between the instinct to live life through gaining knowledge and the necessity to fight back by means of activism. Adam and Nathan are cousins but the dynamic of their relationship is more like that of younger and older brother.
There are faint echoes of My Dinner With Andre, from back in the day, but these conversations are earthier, less pretentious, and well grounded in the predicament of the Cree in Canada. Nonetheless, Nietzsche plays more than a cameo role, thanks to Adam and his philosophical bent.
A lot of droll, wry humor threads itself through Adam's and Nathan's bickering and reminiscences as the film develops toward its denouement.
The actor Sam Bob also injects a superb comic performance about two-thirds of the way through. He appears to be the sum total of the reinforcements but assures Adam and Nathan that "one Cree is all it takes."
Denyc and Ashley Harry also turn in strong performances as two young Cree women who drop by to see the lads. Denyc plays Tara, who matches Adam opinion for opinion. Sara McIntyre's careful direction brings out the best in these and other scenes.
The film is, among other things, perfectly suited to college classes in Canada and the U.S. that focus on the situation of contemporary Indians, aboriginal peoples, multi-ethnic issues, and independent film-making.
Two Indians Talking has already won awards from the Vancouver International Film Festival and the Winnipeg Aboriginal Film Festival. It will also be featured at the Victoria B.C. film festival, and this weekend, Sara McIntyre (and the film) will visit the Spokane Film Festival; she will be there February 11 and 12.
Here is a link to the facebook page for the film.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
As My Generation Dies
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Generation Blues
Death's eating into my generation
as it's done with every other one.
I knew it was coming but am
transfixed and awfully grieved still.
A heart-attack here, cancer there,
suicide, accidents, crime . . . "He wasn't
feeling well, so he went up to his
room. They found him dead a few
hours later. Stroke, they think."
The funerals mostly bore me.
Boredom makes me feel guilty,
although the one spoken of isn't
there, and if she or he were, he
or she would be bored, too.
Eventually I'm moved. There is
that one point in every funeral.
The generation blues is an exercise
in sitting still, as in kindergarten.
It's about wondering who's next
and thinking nothing matters--
until after the funeral, when again
we get caught up in life, which matters,
until the next one we know dies, and
we become still again, or the next one
is me, is I, who, dead, will get
instantly and forever still and might
be talked about to people who are
getting fidgety, thinking when will it end?
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
^
#
_
Generation Blues
Death's eating into my generation
as it's done with every other one.
I knew it was coming but am
transfixed and awfully grieved still.
A heart-attack here, cancer there,
suicide, accidents, crime . . . "He wasn't
feeling well, so he went up to his
room. They found him dead a few
hours later. Stroke, they think."
The funerals mostly bore me.
Boredom makes me feel guilty,
although the one spoken of isn't
there, and if she or he were, he
or she would be bored, too.
Eventually I'm moved. There is
that one point in every funeral.
The generation blues is an exercise
in sitting still, as in kindergarten.
It's about wondering who's next
and thinking nothing matters--
until after the funeral, when again
we get caught up in life, which matters,
until the next one we know dies, and
we become still again, or the next one
is me, is I, who, dead, will get
instantly and forever still and might
be talked about to people who are
getting fidgety, thinking when will it end?
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Personal Collages
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[
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Personal Collages
Early I get there where they're not
waiting for me because they don't
get there early and because they
expect somebody just-on-time.
Short-cuts I like to take when
sauntering back, maybe a
diagonal leaving a sidewalk walking
or taking a strange street driving.
A long time I'll spend on something
because I'm absorbed or compelled
or habitual or relentless. Hardly
any time will I spend on some task
if I'm bored, I'll get it done. These
collages of how each of us lives:
they're assembled from pieces of
temperament and formation,
resistance, weakness, strength,
fear, instinct, desire, and distraction.
Brain-chemistry plays role. They say.
Enchanted, I am, often, when I look
at others' collages of habits. Their ways.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
}
[
)
Personal Collages
Early I get there where they're not
waiting for me because they don't
get there early and because they
expect somebody just-on-time.
Short-cuts I like to take when
sauntering back, maybe a
diagonal leaving a sidewalk walking
or taking a strange street driving.
A long time I'll spend on something
because I'm absorbed or compelled
or habitual or relentless. Hardly
any time will I spend on some task
if I'm bored, I'll get it done. These
collages of how each of us lives:
they're assembled from pieces of
temperament and formation,
resistance, weakness, strength,
fear, instinct, desire, and distraction.
Brain-chemistry plays role. They say.
Enchanted, I am, often, when I look
at others' collages of habits. Their ways.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Professional Golfers
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+
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Professional Golfers
Each walks in front of someone hauling
a bag of silver sticks. Each one selects
one stick and wags and wields it,
comically attacking a white nut on
the ground. A groomed pasture
without animals is the setting.
Sometimes there's a lost pond or
a piece of stolen beach among
the undulations. Even the old
golfers look like girls and boys,
with caps and visors and colorful
clothes. Apparently the ritual
is absurd but remunerative.
The Platonic Ideal is to never
strike the spherical nut, so that
your score is zero--no strokes
of silver sticks in a pastoral
frieze without lambs. Now up
out of one of the denatured
beaches comes a hermit-crab,
surrounded by a dry, green
ocean, blinking, bewildered,
not a member of the club.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
+
%
#
Professional Golfers
Each walks in front of someone hauling
a bag of silver sticks. Each one selects
one stick and wags and wields it,
comically attacking a white nut on
the ground. A groomed pasture
without animals is the setting.
Sometimes there's a lost pond or
a piece of stolen beach among
the undulations. Even the old
golfers look like girls and boys,
with caps and visors and colorful
clothes. Apparently the ritual
is absurd but remunerative.
The Platonic Ideal is to never
strike the spherical nut, so that
your score is zero--no strokes
of silver sticks in a pastoral
frieze without lambs. Now up
out of one of the denatured
beaches comes a hermit-crab,
surrounded by a dry, green
ocean, blinking, bewildered,
not a member of the club.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Kindness
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Kindness
Is it out of fashion? Naive? Quaint?
People are nice, cool, okay, decent,
and all right. But: kind? Kindness is
small-town and small-time. I like it.
I like the hell out of it.
To be friendly for no reason other
than the person is your kind (human).
To do a good turn. To look away
at just the right moment. To notice
when noticing's needed. To provide
some assistance. Narcissists
and bullies hate and therefore exploit
kindness like wild dogs devouring meat.
Don't spend kindness on or near them.
Don't impose kindness on anyone.
The kind move, it seems, must
be a deft move. Just enough.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
#
#
#
Kindness
Is it out of fashion? Naive? Quaint?
People are nice, cool, okay, decent,
and all right. But: kind? Kindness is
small-town and small-time. I like it.
I like the hell out of it.
To be friendly for no reason other
than the person is your kind (human).
To do a good turn. To look away
at just the right moment. To notice
when noticing's needed. To provide
some assistance. Narcissists
and bullies hate and therefore exploit
kindness like wild dogs devouring meat.
Don't spend kindness on or near them.
Don't impose kindness on anyone.
The kind move, it seems, must
be a deft move. Just enough.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
slow down
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&
&
&
slow down
a north carolinian i know continues
a quest to know himself & out west
i think that's good because most people
are on the same kind of path but don't
know it or won't admit it. me, i've
been running, pushing, working,
catching up, and attempting
most of my life & now have to
train myself to stop, look, think,
but mostly stop: life's not
something to solve through work
and will. if you'd know something,
then slow something down, i
tell myself, thinking of the north
carolinian in question, his schedule
spare and regular, allowing
patient thought. slow down.
slow, i tell myself. whoever
myself is must look into that.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
&
&
&
slow down
a north carolinian i know continues
a quest to know himself & out west
i think that's good because most people
are on the same kind of path but don't
know it or won't admit it. me, i've
been running, pushing, working,
catching up, and attempting
most of my life & now have to
train myself to stop, look, think,
but mostly stop: life's not
something to solve through work
and will. if you'd know something,
then slow something down, i
tell myself, thinking of the north
carolinian in question, his schedule
spare and regular, allowing
patient thought. slow down.
slow, i tell myself. whoever
myself is must look into that.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
One Poem, Three Readers: "Shivering Sands," by Philip Quinlan
Nic Sebastian manages the site, Whale Sound, which features, among other things, group-readings; the way they work is that three readers read (record) the same poem. Nic kindly invited me to read Philip Quinlan's "Shivering Sands," so thanks to her for the invitation, and to the poet for the poem. Here is a link to the three readings (the poem is not long):
"Shivering Sands"
"Shivering Sands"
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Lake
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-
!
A Lake
A lake's a lovely dot
that should have ought
to have been if it weren't.
Lakeside, see the burnt
place inside stones:
campfire. The many zones
of any sort of lake
amaze: here fish wake,
there sleep. Shelves, shallows,
a glass surface where swallows,
evenings, select sweet bugs
to eat. Cool shade for slugs.
Shadows, where the muck
rules. A cove where a duck
feels safe and mutters.
Trees behave like shutters,
filtering light, allowing moss.
Humans can't help but toss
junk into lakes. I don't know why.
In the lake, see the sky.
Sit by the lake. My Lord, the sounds.
Even in small lakes life abounds,
from single-cell and bug to frog
to worms beneath a sunken log.
Fish jump, cruise, dive, and school.
Patient lakeside raccoons drool.
Kingfisher and eagle do espy,
and hawk with an awful eye
perceives a chipmunk by the lake.
(Back up that tree, for heaven's sake.)
A blue acceptance, is a lake,
made of snow or stream or spring,
a lovely, yes, a functional thing.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
*
-
!
A Lake
A lake's a lovely dot
that should have ought
to have been if it weren't.
Lakeside, see the burnt
place inside stones:
campfire. The many zones
of any sort of lake
amaze: here fish wake,
there sleep. Shelves, shallows,
a glass surface where swallows,
evenings, select sweet bugs
to eat. Cool shade for slugs.
Shadows, where the muck
rules. A cove where a duck
feels safe and mutters.
Trees behave like shutters,
filtering light, allowing moss.
Humans can't help but toss
junk into lakes. I don't know why.
In the lake, see the sky.
Sit by the lake. My Lord, the sounds.
Even in small lakes life abounds,
from single-cell and bug to frog
to worms beneath a sunken log.
Fish jump, cruise, dive, and school.
Patient lakeside raccoons drool.
Kingfisher and eagle do espy,
and hawk with an awful eye
perceives a chipmunk by the lake.
(Back up that tree, for heaven's sake.)
A blue acceptance, is a lake,
made of snow or stream or spring,
a lovely, yes, a functional thing.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Light on the Hill
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^
*
@
Light on the Hill
Today I passed "The Church of
the Light on the Hill." It was situated
in a damp hollow. "God bless," I said
silently. Later, the accountant said,
"--Provided our assumptions are correct."
I thought, "Indeed."
And they never are; or seldom.
Faith and accounting are of
the same species: hope--
a light upon a mental hill,
a light we look at from a hollow
near the river of our circumstances.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
^
*
@
Light on the Hill
Today I passed "The Church of
the Light on the Hill." It was situated
in a damp hollow. "God bless," I said
silently. Later, the accountant said,
"--Provided our assumptions are correct."
I thought, "Indeed."
And they never are; or seldom.
Faith and accounting are of
the same species: hope--
a light upon a mental hill,
a light we look at from a hollow
near the river of our circumstances.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Clothing Catalogues
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Clothing Catalogues
I like to look at clothing catalogues
because the photographed models
look so glad. "This sweater makes
me very happy," says a photo of a
man. "We're both wearing hopeful
skirts," says a snapshot of two women.
Some clothes appear without models
but seem animated: arms of shirts
and blouses assert themselves.
"We won't wait for bodies to take
us traveling," says the cloth. Noble
prose describes the products:
"Traditional cashmere in contemporary
styles. Imported." Retail catalogues
are a kind of comedy in which people
marry products in the end and prices
dance with prose. You see in a good
light what's for sale, gazing at
things you think might improve you.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
=
+
=
Clothing Catalogues
I like to look at clothing catalogues
because the photographed models
look so glad. "This sweater makes
me very happy," says a photo of a
man. "We're both wearing hopeful
skirts," says a snapshot of two women.
Some clothes appear without models
but seem animated: arms of shirts
and blouses assert themselves.
"We won't wait for bodies to take
us traveling," says the cloth. Noble
prose describes the products:
"Traditional cashmere in contemporary
styles. Imported." Retail catalogues
are a kind of comedy in which people
marry products in the end and prices
dance with prose. You see in a good
light what's for sale, gazing at
things you think might improve you.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Prose to Verse--Yoga Poem
In poetry-class today, we looked at a variety of short lyric-poems, discussed a few, and then did some writing. One of several options for writing was to take the advice Robert Frost apparently gave Edward Thomas, which was to describe in prose some occurrence or observation and then--gradually or not--begin to turn the writing into verse. One result is the plain-spoken, understated lyricism we find in Frost, Thomas, Larkin, and others.
I almost always write when students write, so today I chose the Frost/Thomas option and wrote a draft-poem about yoga:
Yoga Poem
When I do yoga,
yoga does me.
I'm supposed to
practice easily,
but I don't breathe
occasionally.
Silly, I know.
Yoga does me.
Afterward, I
do feel good--
more like
flesh than wood.
More of yoga,
less of me:
that may be
one yoga-key.
Not quite up to the standards of "Dust of Snow" (Frost) and "Adelstrop" (Thomas), which we read, but it's a start.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
I almost always write when students write, so today I chose the Frost/Thomas option and wrote a draft-poem about yoga:
Yoga Poem
When I do yoga,
yoga does me.
I'm supposed to
practice easily,
but I don't breathe
occasionally.
Silly, I know.
Yoga does me.
Afterward, I
do feel good--
more like
flesh than wood.
More of yoga,
less of me:
that may be
one yoga-key.
Not quite up to the standards of "Dust of Snow" (Frost) and "Adelstrop" (Thomas), which we read, but it's a start.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Elvis at his Burlesque Best
Elvis's drummer once said that when he and Elvis improvised, it was a bit like a burlesque act. Here's Elvis in Vegas having a lot of fun:
Elvis/Vegas
Elvis/Vegas
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Clinging
*
*
*
*
Clinging
Clinging can be a symptom of fear,
obviously so when you cling to fear.
But ... "the only thing we have to fear
is fear itself": bullshit then, bullshit now.
A necessary lie, however: people
seemed to need it to get by, by and by.
Me, I cling to books in general and
particular, going so far as to keep
particular books in bed. They are
objects and talismans to me, not
simply stored data, you see.
I cling to other things--like my
father's pickup truck, my mother's
piano, a woodpecker-toothpick dis-
penser I used to play with on my
aunt's kitchen table; also notebooks,
baseball cards, on and on: the less
valuable, the better. I don't collect:
I cling.
To old opinions. To old friends--until
they finally shut the friendship down
by not sending that annual card.
To scenes from childhood, good and bad.
To memories of people who did bad but
through corruption came out well. To
the idea of justice. To things people promised--
including me. And of course it's all about
me, see, the clinging. If I hold on, it won't
change, or it still exists somehow, or it
won't go away, or . . . .
Bullshit--then and now. My clinging's folly.
The Buddhists say don't get attached. I've
clung to that idea. I get it. Still I say,
"Fuck you--that's the same as saying
don't breathe oxygen." Bullshit then,
bullshit now, grasshopper.
Do you cling? I hope so. Just enough,
though. Aim high . Stay low.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
Clinging
Clinging can be a symptom of fear,
obviously so when you cling to fear.
But ... "the only thing we have to fear
is fear itself": bullshit then, bullshit now.
A necessary lie, however: people
seemed to need it to get by, by and by.
Me, I cling to books in general and
particular, going so far as to keep
particular books in bed. They are
objects and talismans to me, not
simply stored data, you see.
I cling to other things--like my
father's pickup truck, my mother's
piano, a woodpecker-toothpick dis-
penser I used to play with on my
aunt's kitchen table; also notebooks,
baseball cards, on and on: the less
valuable, the better. I don't collect:
I cling.
To old opinions. To old friends--until
they finally shut the friendship down
by not sending that annual card.
To scenes from childhood, good and bad.
To memories of people who did bad but
through corruption came out well. To
the idea of justice. To things people promised--
including me. And of course it's all about
me, see, the clinging. If I hold on, it won't
change, or it still exists somehow, or it
won't go away, or . . . .
Bullshit--then and now. My clinging's folly.
The Buddhists say don't get attached. I've
clung to that idea. I get it. Still I say,
"Fuck you--that's the same as saying
don't breathe oxygen." Bullshit then,
bullshit now, grasshopper.
Do you cling? I hope so. Just enough,
though. Aim high . Stay low.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Lyrics to "Brown-Eyed Handsome Man"
For your reading pleasure, the lyrics to "Brown-Eyed Handsome Man," by Chuck Berry:
Brown Eyed Handsome Man Chuck Berry E Arrested on charges of unemployment, E he was sitting in the witness stand A The judge's wife called up the district attorney B E Said you free that brown eyed man E D E You want your job you better free that brown eyed man Flying across the desert in a TWA, I saw a woman walking across the sand She been a-walkin' thirty miles en route to Bombay. To get a brown eyed handsome man Her destination was a brown eyed handsome man Way back in history three thousand years Back every since the world began There's been a whole lot of good women shed a tear For a brown eyed handsome man That's what the trouble was brown eyed handsome man GUITAR BREAK Beautiful daughter couldn't make up her mind Between a doctor and a lawyer man Her mother told her daughter go out and find yourself A brown eyed handsome man That's what your daddy is a brown eyed handsome man Milo Venus was a beautiful lass She had the world in the palm of her hand But she lost both her arms in a wrestling match To get brown eyed handsome man She fought and won herself a brown eyed handsome man GUITAR BREAK Two, three count with nobody on He hit a high fly into the stand Rounding third he was headed for home It was a brown eyed handsome man That won the game; it was a brown eyed handsome man
Monday, January 24, 2011
Suheir Hammad
A student recommended the performance-poetry of Suheir Hammad. It's very good.
Here is a link to a video from Youtube:
Hammad
Here is a link to a video from Youtube:
Hammad
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Down to the Crossroads
+
+
+
Down to the Crossroads
Probably Robert Johnson just went away
and practiced blues guitar. The story
about the crossroads and the Devil
is a good one, though. Hell
yes, let the Devil take the credit.
Let glamor glow in its seductive
light as you know playing better
came from playing a lot. Meanwhile,
when you're not playing, not telling
the tale, keep practicing and moving
and hope no one gets all poisonous
with envy. You know how they do:
If someone else does good, then
it has to be bad for them. People
need stories that are about more
than the hard work they do.
People need to hear the blues, too.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
+
+
Down to the Crossroads
Probably Robert Johnson just went away
and practiced blues guitar. The story
about the crossroads and the Devil
is a good one, though. Hell
yes, let the Devil take the credit.
Let glamor glow in its seductive
light as you know playing better
came from playing a lot. Meanwhile,
when you're not playing, not telling
the tale, keep practicing and moving
and hope no one gets all poisonous
with envy. You know how they do:
If someone else does good, then
it has to be bad for them. People
need stories that are about more
than the hard work they do.
People need to hear the blues, too.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Yoga Poem #8
+
+
+
Yoga Poem #8
Ill, I've had to be away from yoga.
It's like it's something over there now:
miles away. Hey, yoga! Ironically,
yoga's here. It's my body. Nothing
mystical about that, just fact. Yoga
is one's body doing yoga.
So when I yearn for yoga,
I'm really yearning for my body,
which is here, which is odd.
I'm yearning for my body to
behave in a certain way. After
I get well, I'm going to take my body,
which is yoga, to yoga.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
+
+
Yoga Poem #8
Ill, I've had to be away from yoga.
It's like it's something over there now:
miles away. Hey, yoga! Ironically,
yoga's here. It's my body. Nothing
mystical about that, just fact. Yoga
is one's body doing yoga.
So when I yearn for yoga,
I'm really yearning for my body,
which is here, which is odd.
I'm yearning for my body to
behave in a certain way. After
I get well, I'm going to take my body,
which is yoga, to yoga.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Jim Holt on Memorizing Poetry
I just ran across a piece by Jim Holt (from April 2009) in the NY TIMES about memorizing poetry:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/05/books/review/Holt-t.html
It is indeed nice to have at least a few poems up there in the noggin. (Now I have to investigate the etymology of noggin.) If you're stuck in line or in a waiting-room, for instance, it's nice to withdraw to the pantry and take a poem off the shelf.
Aside from childrens' rhymes, "Stopping By Woods . . ." (by Frost, of course) was the first poem I memorized. We were asked to memorize it in the third grade, back when Frost was something of THE national poet. It's actually a bit of a tricky poem because of that wonderful interlocking rhyme-scheme, although I didn't notice that til later. I think I liked the poem in part because there we were at 4,000 feet in the Sierra Nevada. Images about snow, the woods, and the dark--and even horses--were familiar to us. Frost's choice simply to repeat a line at the end is one of those simple but perfect moves that helps make a good poem great. It "seals" the poem, it reinforces a sense of weary duty, and it just sounds great, like a blues refrain.
Anyway, thanks to Mr. Holt for the essay.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/05/books/review/Holt-t.html
It is indeed nice to have at least a few poems up there in the noggin. (Now I have to investigate the etymology of noggin.) If you're stuck in line or in a waiting-room, for instance, it's nice to withdraw to the pantry and take a poem off the shelf.
Aside from childrens' rhymes, "Stopping By Woods . . ." (by Frost, of course) was the first poem I memorized. We were asked to memorize it in the third grade, back when Frost was something of THE national poet. It's actually a bit of a tricky poem because of that wonderful interlocking rhyme-scheme, although I didn't notice that til later. I think I liked the poem in part because there we were at 4,000 feet in the Sierra Nevada. Images about snow, the woods, and the dark--and even horses--were familiar to us. Frost's choice simply to repeat a line at the end is one of those simple but perfect moves that helps make a good poem great. It "seals" the poem, it reinforces a sense of weary duty, and it just sounds great, like a blues refrain.
Anyway, thanks to Mr. Holt for the essay.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Know/Don't Know
*
&
*
&
Know/Don't Know
I know
pretty much what you know
but I
also don't know anything like
you know
about the specific secret flow
of your
life--the essential realities of what you
and only
you can know. So here we are, same frame
of references
but different essences.
How do
you do? You may say how
you do
but also cannot come close to
saying how
and what you do, how precisely it is to
be you,
to me. Still we must proceed with introductions.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
&
*
&
Know/Don't Know
I know
pretty much what you know
but I
also don't know anything like
you know
about the specific secret flow
of your
life--the essential realities of what you
and only
you can know. So here we are, same frame
of references
but different essences.
How do
you do? You may say how
you do
but also cannot come close to
saying how
and what you do, how precisely it is to
be you,
to me. Still we must proceed with introductions.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Yoga Poem #7
^
()
/
{
Yoga Poem #7
Among the willows
beside
the creek I am a
boulder.
Yoga Creek flows.
Willows,
full of its water,
flex.
They bow, stretch.
Hey,
the boulder participates
in
its own way. Its
molecules
expand, contract.
(Sigh).
The boulder's mat
envies
the willows' mats,
but
the boulder is
fine
with being a rock among
willows.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
()
/
{
Yoga Poem #7
Among the willows
beside
the creek I am a
boulder.
Yoga Creek flows.
Willows,
full of its water,
flex.
They bow, stretch.
Hey,
the boulder participates
in
its own way. Its
molecules
expand, contract.
(Sigh).
The boulder's mat
envies
the willows' mats,
but
the boulder is
fine
with being a rock among
willows.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Just Ray
(
)
(
)
We'd Say That's Just Ray
He built up a furniture-store in Sacramento,
made enough to have a summer Sierra home.
This was back when families owned such stores,
before meta-corporations rolled over them
with container-shipments, volume, capital, etc.
Ray's employees embezzled. The business
collapsed. A proud man defeated. Nobody
doesn't lose. We're told differently ("you can
be whatever you want") because it's good for
business. Yep, Ray was his name. A good man
as far as we could tell, our ages ranging from 6 to
15. We had to furnish a tree fort, and one of us,
not me, put a garter snake down Ray's daughter's
shirt one summer when she was climbing up.
Laurel was her name. Tough. She told her
mother to shut up. This was before the thieves
wrecked Ray. If he were alive today,
he'd say something sober and true about success.
We'd probably humor him and say, after he'd left,
"Oh, that's just Ray."
Copyright 2011 Ostrom
)
(
)
We'd Say That's Just Ray
He built up a furniture-store in Sacramento,
made enough to have a summer Sierra home.
This was back when families owned such stores,
before meta-corporations rolled over them
with container-shipments, volume, capital, etc.
Ray's employees embezzled. The business
collapsed. A proud man defeated. Nobody
doesn't lose. We're told differently ("you can
be whatever you want") because it's good for
business. Yep, Ray was his name. A good man
as far as we could tell, our ages ranging from 6 to
15. We had to furnish a tree fort, and one of us,
not me, put a garter snake down Ray's daughter's
shirt one summer when she was climbing up.
Laurel was her name. Tough. She told her
mother to shut up. This was before the thieves
wrecked Ray. If he were alive today,
he'd say something sober and true about success.
We'd probably humor him and say, after he'd left,
"Oh, that's just Ray."
Copyright 2011 Ostrom
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Acknowledgements
Acknowledgments in books are a genre unto itself, with sub-genres like the academic-book kind, the poetry-boo kind, even the textbook kind. Some are a bit grudging, as if the author hates thanking anybody. Some are expansive, even excessive--the author as darned excited. You can bet that the spouse and the agent (if the author has either or both) get thanked.
Anyway, I decided to play around with this in a poem.
Acknowledgements
First, I must express my gratitude
to Ladislaw Kruplizard for allowing me
to borrow his twenty-volume treatise
on Viking axes. Elliot Logbottom, Ezra
Liverdust, Diana Glutenate, and Myron
Timitomi all glanced at drafts of the manuscript
and rolled their eyes. I thank them, and I have
a long memory. Mao Lee Williams, Fidel
Du Pont, and Tami Bumble let me camp
in their backyards and fight raccoons
for garbage. No, really; thanks. To
the janitor at the Newton Figg Libary of
Fascinating Items, my thanks for letting
me in the back way, and mum's the word.
Finally, there are no words to express
adequate gratitude to my former wife,
Lady Esther Feastfoot, whose lawyers
destroyed my lawyers, thereby leaving
me with little to do but write this book.
Esther, the libel laws are on my side.
Anyway, I decided to play around with this in a poem.
Acknowledgements
First, I must express my gratitude
to Ladislaw Kruplizard for allowing me
to borrow his twenty-volume treatise
on Viking axes. Elliot Logbottom, Ezra
Liverdust, Diana Glutenate, and Myron
Timitomi all glanced at drafts of the manuscript
and rolled their eyes. I thank them, and I have
a long memory. Mao Lee Williams, Fidel
Du Pont, and Tami Bumble let me camp
in their backyards and fight raccoons
for garbage. No, really; thanks. To
the janitor at the Newton Figg Libary of
Fascinating Items, my thanks for letting
me in the back way, and mum's the word.
Finally, there are no words to express
adequate gratitude to my former wife,
Lady Esther Feastfoot, whose lawyers
destroyed my lawyers, thereby leaving
me with little to do but write this book.
Esther, the libel laws are on my side.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Memory's Bus
@
@
@
@
Memory's Bus
Memory is madness
that's deemed sane.
It hums lost tunes and
strolls a lost lane.
It makes things up
and calls them "Past."
It manufactures
replicas that last.
For language and math,
memory's all right.
It helps you hold what
you read last night.
Its versions of us, though,
become who we are.
Arbitrarily, it selects
scenes that will star.
In the story of us, memory
tells and retells us.
Memory drives the
weirdest tour-bus.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
@
@
@
Memory's Bus
Memory is madness
that's deemed sane.
It hums lost tunes and
strolls a lost lane.
It makes things up
and calls them "Past."
It manufactures
replicas that last.
For language and math,
memory's all right.
It helps you hold what
you read last night.
Its versions of us, though,
become who we are.
Arbitrarily, it selects
scenes that will star.
In the story of us, memory
tells and retells us.
Memory drives the
weirdest tour-bus.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Earth As Art
*
*
*
*
Earth As Art
In aircraft over Eastern Oregon, see winter's
landscape white and blue. White discs equal
crop fields: wheat? Lake-blue equals not
lake but mountains' shadows: shockingly
beautiful and surreal. Brownish blue is lake.
All color down there just is: is simply it.
Allow color to be abstract if you will.
White ends abruptly as a suede plain
opens up to view. Plain cannot desire
view, unlike artists and their art. This
sculpted painting below comes from
genius of, genesis of, Earth. Down there,
as up here where jet-trails briefly mark
the sky, humans have etched geometric
shapes and scrawled highways. That's
about all. Otherwise, Earth is left
alone to the studio of itself.
Copyright 2011
*
*
*
Earth As Art
In aircraft over Eastern Oregon, see winter's
landscape white and blue. White discs equal
crop fields: wheat? Lake-blue equals not
lake but mountains' shadows: shockingly
beautiful and surreal. Brownish blue is lake.
All color down there just is: is simply it.
Allow color to be abstract if you will.
White ends abruptly as a suede plain
opens up to view. Plain cannot desire
view, unlike artists and their art. This
sculpted painting below comes from
genius of, genesis of, Earth. Down there,
as up here where jet-trails briefly mark
the sky, humans have etched geometric
shapes and scrawled highways. That's
about all. Otherwise, Earth is left
alone to the studio of itself.
Copyright 2011
Selected, Screened, Scanned
*
**
***
****
Selected, Screened, Scanned
In Vegas airport, I was selected for extra
security-screening, or netted in the screen
for securely extraordinary surveillance. I felt
like an unusual combination of numbers
that had arisen against common gaming odds.
"We want nothing in your pockets but air,"
said the woman. (The same philosophy
guides the gaming industry, which doesn't
gamble.) She then left me standing like a
mannequin in the scanner's glass exhibit,
my shoeless feet set in someone's yellow
footprints. A device rotated around
axis-me, dusting me with radiation, my
hands up and elbows out like those of
a salamander climbing a clammy stone.
I emerged with nothing in my pockets
but air and a few sad items in my
hands, such as a handkerchief and
scraps of poems. A man greeted me
severely when I came out from the
momentary cell. He examined stuff
in my hands. He spoke into a walkie-
talkie: "Copy the male," he said to . . .
someone, somewhere, who had placed
a kind of bet on me. Why?
Was it my dark and brooding brow,
my atavistic 50s buzz-cut, my constant
befuddlement as, in line, I moved bits
of paper, coins, lint, and pens from pocket
pocket to pocket like a Dickensian
fidgeter? What raised the odds on me,
aside from my oddity? Ah, it could have
been my gaze, which, fascinated, fastens
itself on persons, all of whom interest me.
To stare, after all, is part of a writer's
routine. In front of a screen, the
surveilling man or woman either was or
was not relieved to lose the wager placed
on the male, the me-male, the I, the copied
male, the selected, suspected, screened,
scanned, and surveilled male with only
air in his pockets, socks on his feet,
and curiosity in his head.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
**
***
****
Selected, Screened, Scanned
In Vegas airport, I was selected for extra
security-screening, or netted in the screen
for securely extraordinary surveillance. I felt
like an unusual combination of numbers
that had arisen against common gaming odds.
"We want nothing in your pockets but air,"
said the woman. (The same philosophy
guides the gaming industry, which doesn't
gamble.) She then left me standing like a
mannequin in the scanner's glass exhibit,
my shoeless feet set in someone's yellow
footprints. A device rotated around
axis-me, dusting me with radiation, my
hands up and elbows out like those of
a salamander climbing a clammy stone.
I emerged with nothing in my pockets
but air and a few sad items in my
hands, such as a handkerchief and
scraps of poems. A man greeted me
severely when I came out from the
momentary cell. He examined stuff
in my hands. He spoke into a walkie-
talkie: "Copy the male," he said to . . .
someone, somewhere, who had placed
a kind of bet on me. Why?
Was it my dark and brooding brow,
my atavistic 50s buzz-cut, my constant
befuddlement as, in line, I moved bits
of paper, coins, lint, and pens from pocket
pocket to pocket like a Dickensian
fidgeter? What raised the odds on me,
aside from my oddity? Ah, it could have
been my gaze, which, fascinated, fastens
itself on persons, all of whom interest me.
To stare, after all, is part of a writer's
routine. In front of a screen, the
surveilling man or woman either was or
was not relieved to lose the wager placed
on the male, the me-male, the I, the copied
male, the selected, suspected, screened,
scanned, and surveilled male with only
air in his pockets, socks on his feet,
and curiosity in his head.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Stan Is Stubborn
Stan Is Stubborn
Once an inebriated stranger
in San Francisco on
the street in North Beach
said to me,
"Stan, is that you?"
"No," I said, "I'm sorry,
but I'm not Stan. "Oh," he
said, swaying delicately in
that way actors can never
capture, the white of his
eyes gone burgundy like
a Pacific sunset, "I was
afraid of that. . . . Stan
died 'n I guess he's gonna
stay dead. He always was
a stubborn son of a bitch."
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Once an inebriated stranger
in San Francisco on
the street in North Beach
said to me,
"Stan, is that you?"
"No," I said, "I'm sorry,
but I'm not Stan. "Oh," he
said, swaying delicately in
that way actors can never
capture, the white of his
eyes gone burgundy like
a Pacific sunset, "I was
afraid of that. . . . Stan
died 'n I guess he's gonna
stay dead. He always was
a stubborn son of a bitch."
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Saturday, January 1, 2011
New Year's Eve
New Year's Eve
it's New Year's Eve and
i'm lying in bed writing,
writing as usual. i start a
poem, then hear the phone,
get out of bed, and answer it.
the person calling
is a very close friend
and says, "i'm terribly
anxious now--i don't
know why--is everything
going to be okay?"
"yes," i answer, "it is."
my friend seems relieved.
soon the conversation ends.
i go back to bed. i'm wearing
a white oxford-cloth, button-
down shirt, not pajamas.
there are 7 books on the bed
and debris. i start to write again.
it's almost New Year's Day,
and everything is going
to be okay, if i'm right,
and if i'm wrong.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
it's New Year's Eve and
i'm lying in bed writing,
writing as usual. i start a
poem, then hear the phone,
get out of bed, and answer it.
the person calling
is a very close friend
and says, "i'm terribly
anxious now--i don't
know why--is everything
going to be okay?"
"yes," i answer, "it is."
my friend seems relieved.
soon the conversation ends.
i go back to bed. i'm wearing
a white oxford-cloth, button-
down shirt, not pajamas.
there are 7 books on the bed
and debris. i start to write again.
it's almost New Year's Day,
and everything is going
to be okay, if i'm right,
and if i'm wrong.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
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