Showing posts with label peace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label peace. Show all posts
Monday, November 10, 2025
Thursday, October 16, 2025
Tuesday, August 12, 2025
Monday, August 17, 2020
Thursday, July 23, 2020
"Travel Tickets," by Samih al-Qasim
Terrific poem by the Lebanese Arab-language poet, Samih al-Qasim. Poem is translated by A.Z. Foreman from his great poetry in translation site.
link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_guYEYMbkg
link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_guYEYMbkg
Friday, April 3, 2020
A Common Form of Alienation
I'm a common stock in search
of a future. A laugh looking
for a joke. A surrender seeking
a peace offering. A seduced
yearning for seduction. I'm a
blank in search of a blank.
A past that's lost its present.
I'm a solution without its
problem, and that's a problem.
hans ostrom 2020
of a future. A laugh looking
for a joke. A surrender seeking
a peace offering. A seduced
yearning for seduction. I'm a
blank in search of a blank.
A past that's lost its present.
I'm a solution without its
problem, and that's a problem.
hans ostrom 2020
Friday, November 11, 2011
Lime Cove
*
*
*
Lime Cove
Charlotte sings a lullaby
to her bedroom, making sure
it's slow asleep before she
quicks herself away. Charlotte
and the night are in a kind
of clanky love. She says
to her doorbell, "Please come
in," and washes from it all
those oily index-finger prints.
Solicitations, she thinks, take up
so much of our lives. Asking,
answering. "God," she asks,
"help me to find a place in pause,
a site, a situation, for it seems
I am defeated by the business
of each day." Charlotte knows
she hasn't earned or isn't due
a special treatment. She also
knows she isn't out of line
in asking for some cease of
time, a cove carved out of
lime, where a pod of echoes
soaks itself in brine.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
*
*
Lime Cove
Charlotte sings a lullaby
to her bedroom, making sure
it's slow asleep before she
quicks herself away. Charlotte
and the night are in a kind
of clanky love. She says
to her doorbell, "Please come
in," and washes from it all
those oily index-finger prints.
Solicitations, she thinks, take up
so much of our lives. Asking,
answering. "God," she asks,
"help me to find a place in pause,
a site, a situation, for it seems
I am defeated by the business
of each day." Charlotte knows
she hasn't earned or isn't due
a special treatment. She also
knows she isn't out of line
in asking for some cease of
time, a cove carved out of
lime, where a pod of echoes
soaks itself in brine.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
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