Actual Art

Walls of art marching

against sensory perception,

walls exhaust me. Not as much 

as grunt-work at the gravel

plant. Still. Excess of art

fries neurons, sends the self

searching for a burrow.

The Hermitage hit me

like a tsunami. Bus loads

of tourists triggered

a riptide. I ran gasping

to the gift shop. A way

to ease back into reality.

Among postcard re-

productions, I found 

an original print from an

engraving, contemporary

Russian artist. Brown ink.

A simple St. Petersburg

street scene--bridge, river,

stolid building. The cashier,

a lovely woman with Nordic

blue eyes, said, "This is

actually art." "Yes--so glad

I found it," I said. Cold Wars

new and old did not stop

us from agreeing. Somewhere

in St. Petersburg, the artist

toiled at her day job. Outside

the Hermitage with my 

actual art in a brown paper

sack, I accepted September

sun warmth gratefully.

Breathed, the great palace

of art behind my back.

hans ostrom 2021

Transformation: Russian Poet

When I become a Russian poet,
I write lines like "I walked home
from the universe after midnight."
In my diary, I record hunger,
infatuation, death, more death,
prayer, gibberish--and passion
that screams in my throat.

I read American poetry
and wonder, "When will
they ever grow up?" I was
born grown up. It's the Russian
way. I write poems
about white birches, inconstant
lovers, and ice--in spite
of myself. Poetry was invented
everywhere but especially,
especially in Russia.


hans ostrom 2019

And the Smiles Don't Disappear

In another century, you walked
across Litenyny Bridge,
St. Petersburg. Snow with notions
of rain fell tangentially then.
You'd come from Sweden
expecting nothing. The city
was scuffed, stained, and strained.
Puffing buses spewed black exhaust,
hauling hardiest people. You
were on your way to the Finland
Station, because of what you'd read,
not what you'd lived. The river
was white. And beautiful.

Now in this century, lights
of St. Petersburg have bloomed.
The Bronze Horseman's vision
of the City has been buffed.
Hope's been hauled up out
of sad pits. People breathe
and laugh, walk to school
and work in good clothes.
Fresh vegetables for all.
Revolution enough, but don't
tell Lenin. When in St. Petersburg,

you must look for Akhmatova's
house--well, one she lived
in. Because you like living,
you seek beet soup in September
as rain with notions of sunshine
falls in a kindly way on  massive
monuments and canal water, on

people's hats and umbrellas--

on their smiles, which do not disappear.


hans ostrom 2019

Their Dominion Today

Always the birds, to haul you back
from history, splendor's clutter,
and your grasping mind. On a steel
bench outside Catherine's Summer
Palace, near a lakely pond,
I get an ear buzzed by a sparrow
on its way to pick over grain
tourists tossed to ducks.

A black and grey raven lands
close on a bench-back, cocks
its head to cast a cold eye
of inquiry. Sun warmth,
oaks, willows, and breeze suggest
Central California to me.
Our landscapes are so much
more similar than our politics
force us not to be. Here

is here. Birds live in their
own geography and polity.
They know they can't eat
history or nest in ideology.
Today is their dominion
outside St. Petersburg.


hans ostrom 2019
revision

Chekhov's Advice on Playwriting (letter to A.P. Chekhov)