The Poems Will Keep Arriving

 

. . . and arriving. Poetry is something some

people must write or speak.

Some people, including poets,

must make distinctions about poems

and poets, for society’s a place

of endless distinctions,

which make for a lot of noise

and lists, walls and squabbles. 

Imagine someone standing on a beach,

making distinctions about waves,

saying which are good, which are bad,

which are great, which must be dismissed

and scorned.

Note that the waves keep coming.

The poems keep coming because

They must. The moon drives the waves.

What drives the poems? A trillion

Different moons, that’s what.

And one of them is language itself—

that great mystery in the brain,

in the air, in the squares, in the ears

and eyes, in the everywhere we live.

The poems will keeping arriving.

Some of them belong to you.

hans ostrom 2022

 

Poetry Consulates

 (second version)

Pushkin loved the idea of St. Petersburg
and the bronze horseman who saw
the city before it was built. Langston
Hughes loved the idea of Harlem,
also some people there. Did Baudelaire

love Paris? Splenetically, maybe.
I don't think Dickinson loved
any cities. The village of her mind
sufficed, urban in its way.

It pleases me to think
of all the poets writing now
in Istanbul and Mainz, Hong

Kong and Honolulu, Uppsala
and Houston, Brasilia and Berlin,
Tehran and Tangier and all
the other cities where poets
live--every city in other words,
in their words, which
follow their cities around,
no matter how often the
cities change disguises
or suffer horrors. Poets'

words attach themselves to love
and food, despair and dreams,
rage and work and filth and beauty.
If only these poets could meet
and read their poems and argue
but not fight, ask questions
about language and children,
mountains and rivers and trains.
Should we, then, build poetry consulates
in all these poem-filled cities?
Yes, yes we should.

© right now    poetry • cities   

An Opening

Gamblers and philosophers--Pascal was both--
need a system. Poets with a system wake up
one morning or night and the system is lying
next to them like a suit of armor made entirely
of mollusks. Unsatisfactory. Poets need openings,
not systems. There is life and there is language
and there are openings between the two and poets
look for them. Here's an opening: go through.


hans ostrom 2019

Poetry Consulates

Pushkin loved the idea of St. Petersburg
and the bronze horseman who saw
the city before it was built. Langston
Hughes loved the idea of Harlem,
also some people there. Did Baudelaire
love Paris? Splenetically, perhaps.
I don't think Dickinson loved
any cities. The village of her mind
sufficed. It pleases me to think
of all the poets writing now
in Istanbul and Mainz, Hong
Kong and Honolulu, Uppsala
and Houston, Brasilia and Berlin,
Tehran and Tangier and all
the other cities where poets
live, every city in other words,
in their words,  which
follow their cities around,
no matter how often the
cities change disguises. Poets'
words attach themselves to love
and food, despair and dreams. If
only these poets could meet
and read their poems and argue
but not fight, ask questions
about language and children,
mountains and rivers. Should we
build poetry consulates in all the cities
we can? Surely it couldn't hurt.


hans ostrom 2019

Novel and Poem

(ars poetica)

A novel is a thousand lovely cacti.
A poem is a shot of tequila.
Novel is the breathing of a marathon-runner.
Poem is the intake of breath felt when a woman
invites you to be nude with her.
Novel is a wheat field. Poem
is a vegetable patch.

A novel is a city.
A poem is hearing music or seeing
art or going broke or having sex or
falling in love or hating work or fearing
or being all alone or getting acclaim or
arrested in that city.

Novel is a search for spices.
Poem is cardamom.

A novel is a battle.
A poem is dog-tags hanging
on a war memorial.

Novel is someone you know well.
Poem is an intimate stranger.


hans ostrom 2016

Revising Titles of Poems

Today I'll be working with the poets on the titles of the poems they've written this term. Here are some of the options I'll offer:


1. If the tile of your poem is long, try a title that is one word. Shapiro: "Nebraska." Langston Hughes: "Harlem."
2. Start with a participle or gerund--an "ing" word. James Wright: "Lying in a Hammock . . ."
3. Make the title a complete sentence: "Jack Eats Plastic"
4. Theme: so old-fashioned! "Of the Unfairness of Stomach Aches."
5. Allusion. "A Bird Eats my Liver"--allusion to Prometheus. "Something's Gaining On Me"--allusion to a statement by Satchel Paige.
6. Adjective plus noun: so simple! "Red Shoes." "White Folks."
7. A word or phrase from a language other than English: might sound pretentious, might not.
8. A title that springs from a word or phrase in the last 3 lines. This works uncannily well.



hans ostrom 2014

"Something Left Undone," by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Lost Poems

Sometimes I think
of all the great poems
lost to us through
one happenstance
or another. They
gleam like rare
stones lying on the
face of another
galaxy's moon.



hans ostrom 2013

Sudden Infinity

not sure.
do know history's owned.
driver's ed.

the allies. you remember them.
cut the heads off.
indescribable scene.
sources say myth.
sources say fear.
sources. say.
sources. "the thing is,
he had to have known."

percentages on the back end, said
my friend in Hollywood, which
does not give
does not give
does not give
a
shit.
in other news, we, collectively,
have raised the average
temperature.
what to do?
 did you say, "what to do?"
well then to that i say,
yes, let us ask and let us try
to
answer


hans ostrom 2013

Frequently Asked Questions

When?
What do you mean?
How come?
Where is it?
Why should I?

Who cares?
Why bother?
What the Hell?
How, exactly?
Where did you get that idea?
When may I expect an answer?

How much?
What's going on?
Where are you?
When did it happen?
Who found him?
Why did she leave?

Who knows?
Why me?
How long do I have?
What are the odds?
Where will I go?
When?


--Hans Ostrom, 2012

A Poet's Real Fear

There is
so much time to say
something and
so little
to say.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

Two Aphorisms About Poetry

There's kind of a good news/bad news thing about aphorisms.  The fact that someone would write an aphorism, and call it that, and make it public suggests a level of arrogance: "Hey, I'm about to impart some wisdom--uh, pithily."  "Is that so? Well,  I can't wait."

Good news: the pithy part.  It's all over very quickly.

2.. Poetry concerns what most people--for many reasons, some of them excellent--prefer not to think about. Sometimes one of these people reads a poem and afterwards is glad he or she read it and thought about whatever it was the poem concerned.

2.  In one respect, poetry is like petrified wood, for it intrigues not because of what it is but because of what it seems to be.

--Hans Ostrom