Almost All Right

Hiram takes the pills

for lifelong "clinical depression,"
which means "often more
than simply sad." When
the pills don't work, he

knows only one way
to try to climb out of the well:
to turn outward & do something
for someone else. Help them.

Connecting again like that:
it's like a rope. Hiram grabs it,
climbs slowly, his feet finding
niches in the deep well's
slick stone walls. Until he's

out, sitting on the ground,
breathing, looking around.
Ah, yes, the world again--
and it's almost bright,
and I'm almost all right.

Hans Ostrom 2024

He Wheels His Worldly Goods

He wheels his worldly goods

now in a chair 
his mother sat in as he pushed her
along sidewalks and into shops
not far from her small place where
he slept on the couch, and helped her out.

She died, all leases up, and so
he's back on streets, in parks,
and underneath the tarp he carries
with him. He washes up wherever
he can. --Getting by,

getting warm when possible in
a world where people try like hell
to look away. The barrier between
the sheltered and unsheltered seems
high to them. A few toss money over it.

He could tell them (but he never does)
with what ease a person can slip down
the ladder. A little illness and some
depression, or psychosis, add some
loss of work and a broken web of friends
and family--and that will do the trick.

One night you're sleeping in your car.
And then you have to sell the car for cash.
And then you're pushing all you have
in a chair your ma used to sit in
as she encouraged you not to lose hope.

hans ostrom 2023

Please Feel Sorry for Yourself

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Such

a tedious rebuke. Often followed

by words about gratitude or

comparative well being. 

I encourage you to feel sorry

for yourself. Feel sorry for other

people, too, but save some for yourself.

Properly calibrated, self-sympathy

dulls disappointment's edge. It can

soothe depression when you're lying

there staring into your mind like it was

a dark, fishless aquarium. 

The pleasure of self-pity

is under-rated. Indeed I think

some people try to shame you

out of it because they think

you might be enjoying it.

I feel sorry for them. 

hans ostrom 

At Motel Depression

At Motel Depression, you're just not interested.
You recall what being interested is like,
but it's a proper tall hotel in another part of town.

Best not to strain against the circumstances.
See the salt-and-pepper screen of the broken
TV. Guess the age of the smelly drapes.

Toss your clothes on the embattled chair.
The painting is a kind of punishment.
No moaning, no wailing, please:

the walls are thin. Keep the sheets
between you and the blankets. There's
a good chance you'll check out tomorrow.


hans ostrom 2018

Harrier Mind

Your mind's pressing in again,
isn't it?  Harrier mind. It raps
on doors and windows, jiggles
locks, leaves ugly messages.

It's a double agent, a drill
sergeant, a bully, a beast.
Hunker down. Think of this
annoyance as mental theater.

Fall asleep before intermission,
muttering, "Mind, you exhaust me."



hans ostrom 2017

Having a Word with It

I'm never quite sure of who you are,
depression. I ought to hate you. I don't.

It's like you're some kind of gray-garbed
circuit judge. You ride into town, glower
down at me, then summon me to a cold

brown room where we sit silently.
You like it fine. I start to stare

into a pit I've hallucinated.
Eventually you leave. Or seem to.
When they finally sort out all
the brain science, your current name,

depression, will seem as quaint
as a Model T. Anyway, . . .


hans ostrom 2016

“On Dürer’s Melancolia," by William Watson

"The Anguish," by Edna St. Vincent Millay