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Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Friday, March 27, 2026
Tuesday, September 30, 2025
Sunday, July 6, 2025
Thursday, October 8, 2020
"Tears Fall In My Heart," by Paul Verlaine
Reading/video of a poem by French Symbolist and so-called Decadent, Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)--translated by Richard Greene:
Sunday, August 30, 2020
After Eating at that Swiss Place
After eating at a cheap Swiss
place, you two walked
around Paris, which wants
to be walked around.
Back at the hotel, modest
except for big windows,
you got in bed and later
slept the civilized sleep of
food and wine and sex.
Woke to gray light,
to rain bothering glass.
Embraced under covers
to ward off chill. Desired
coffee. Fell back asleep,
back into the many privileges
afforded at the moment.
Noise of traffic, of work,
rose outside.
hans ostrom 2020
Monday, December 11, 2017
A You You Can Believe In
"Victor Hugo was a madman
who believed himself to be Victor Hugo,"
said Jean Cocteau, except in French.
Take heed: Cocteau and Vic
showed the way. Dream yourself
up a magnificent, protean you
that has robust self-regard,
if you haven't done so already.
Believe you are
that person. And maybe
my you will see your you
around--in Paris perhaps.
hans ostrom 2017
who believed himself to be Victor Hugo,"
said Jean Cocteau, except in French.
Take heed: Cocteau and Vic
showed the way. Dream yourself
up a magnificent, protean you
that has robust self-regard,
if you haven't done so already.
Believe you are
that person. And maybe
my you will see your you
around--in Paris perhaps.
hans ostrom 2017
Friday, April 21, 2017
Balzac's Ghost and the Crucial Detail
She brought the wrong clothes to Paris,
which wasn’t as warm as imagination.
She borrowed a sweater and a coat
from me; also shoes, and the heavy socks
that made them fit. My sweater, especially,
seemed to enjoy having her wear it
in cafes, brasseries, and markets. I
explained all this to Balzac’s ghost
at the writer’s home on Rue Raynouard.
Even though I wasn’t speaking French,
Balzac understood immediately. I went
on to observe that almost everyone
almost everywhere works hard and life
slips by so quickly and then all of a
sudden
you’re a ghost listening to a tourist.
Yes, yes, said Balzac’s ghost, but
tell me, what color is the sweater she
borrowed from you? Green, I said.
That, he said, is today’s crucial detail.
Hans Ostrom
from The
Coast Starlight: Collected Poems 1976-2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Another Good Surreal Night in Paris
That one night in Paris, we searched
for a Mexican restaurant and found it.
Waitresses wore tight bluejeans and
cowboy boots. Nashville music
thumped and twanged.
It was a sincerely inauthentic place.
That made us happy. It brought to mind
California, where only geology
is originally from there.
We ate les tacos and drank Dutch beer.
Looked across a dark courtyard
and spied, two floors up in a kind
of warehouse, ballet dancers,
dozens of them. They faced
the instructor, stretched and jumped
to music we could not hear.
A fire-eater appeared in the courtyard.
He licked a long match and guzzled
fuel. Tipped his head back, roared
flame into night. We saw his small
audience gasp. Full,
we sipped our beers. Saw that the dancers
were drenched in sweat. When the man
with the oboe walked in, we knew
we weren't supposed to be surprised.
hans ostrom 1981/2017
for a Mexican restaurant and found it.
Waitresses wore tight bluejeans and
cowboy boots. Nashville music
thumped and twanged.
It was a sincerely inauthentic place.
That made us happy. It brought to mind
California, where only geology
is originally from there.
We ate les tacos and drank Dutch beer.
Looked across a dark courtyard
and spied, two floors up in a kind
of warehouse, ballet dancers,
dozens of them. They faced
the instructor, stretched and jumped
to music we could not hear.
A fire-eater appeared in the courtyard.
He licked a long match and guzzled
fuel. Tipped his head back, roared
flame into night. We saw his small
audience gasp. Full,
we sipped our beers. Saw that the dancers
were drenched in sweat. When the man
with the oboe walked in, we knew
we weren't supposed to be surprised.
hans ostrom 1981/2017
Monday, November 7, 2016
Certain Beverages
Hot chocolate is independent, comforting, and interesting,
like a tastefully dressed and perfumed woman
sitting at a bar who knows how to hold a conversation.
A shot or more of vodka is like a broad, iced
highway when you've just been handed
the keys to a black Corvette with failed
headlights and bald tires.
A German beer from the tap
is a highly trained, reserved professional,
absolutely dependable.
If you specify the red wine as Beaujolais,
then I will want to be of assistance
to multiple French women at once,
most likely in October, in Paris, and forgive me
if, momentarily, I confuse the situation
with paradise. As to retsina,
God help me, I did love it, as one
might love an athletic, deceptively
savvy woman from a rural province.
If you would ask me about God,
I would refer you to clean alpine creek-water.
hans ostrom 2016
like a tastefully dressed and perfumed woman
sitting at a bar who knows how to hold a conversation.
A shot or more of vodka is like a broad, iced
highway when you've just been handed
the keys to a black Corvette with failed
headlights and bald tires.
A German beer from the tap
is a highly trained, reserved professional,
absolutely dependable.
If you specify the red wine as Beaujolais,
then I will want to be of assistance
to multiple French women at once,
most likely in October, in Paris, and forgive me
if, momentarily, I confuse the situation
with paradise. As to retsina,
God help me, I did love it, as one
might love an athletic, deceptively
savvy woman from a rural province.
If you would ask me about God,
I would refer you to clean alpine creek-water.
hans ostrom 2016
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