That One Night When You Were Eleven

Cold and dark already,

before dinner time, the long
bus ride up Sierra mountains
leaving you stunned: some years
later, you'd say "bummed out."

Your brothers--gone to suburbia
for high school. Your parents--
no longer in love. Outside--
true darkness of a wilderness,
your neighbor.

Boring homework, an hour
of TV (a single shaky analog channel
survived the canyons), books
in bed. And one night when

you are eleven, semen surges
out of you. The feeling scares, thrills,
and soothes you so much,
the door of a spaceship opens,
you enter, and you begin your journey
to a galaxy of women and orgasms.

You smelled the strange smell
of cum. You lay still in darkness.
If you said anything, you probably
said, "Wow," or "God." And time
and space rolled on beyond the mountains.

hans ostrom 2023

Bodies in the Sauna

Her body, his body,

nude in a sauna,
and she slick with sweat
sits on his lap facing him,
and he slick with sweat
holds her close. Deep

Swedish winter wraps
around the building of flats.
This is good," she says. This
is very, very good. He likes
the softly scratchy feel of her
pubic hair & the miracle
of hardening nipples. It is
good, he says--and stops
himself from saying a rare
jewel of a night because
she would mock him for
adding  a flourish.

The cold air that strikes them
as they leave the sauna and cross
the hallway naked to their flat
feels like freshly invented air.
Inside they guzzle water, shower,
get in bed, and make love. Later,

as she snores, he sinks like an anchor
into sleep. but he thinks he needs
to button up the night with words.
To himself he says, Good, very
good & then his brain disappears.

hans ostrom 2022

The Cunnilingus Poem

 1887 L. C. SMITHERS tr. Forberg's Man.Class. Erotology v. 122 A man who is in the habit of putting out his tongue for the obscene act of cunnilinging.  1897 H. Ellis Stud. Psychol. Sex. I. iv. 98 The extreme gratification is cunnilingus,..sometimes called sapphism.

--Oxford Dictionary of the English Language, online

The gratification can be extreme. That’s true.

As I look at this poem, I’m feeling good

about it, but we both know that

the poem’s language—yes, that’s right,

its tongue—oughtn’t to degrade, devalue,

pornographize, evade, or abuse its subject.

That’s been done. The poem has opened,

chooses telling Showing happens, too.

The poem does not advise discretion.

It decides to locate itself respectfully where

it believes it’s been invited. It chooses to be human

and hopes you’ll understand. Now it proceeds

beyond the play of preliminaries.

Her apartment was in a cheap, two-story

stucco heap—palatial compared to my place.

We lay on her bed in a close, hot room: Spring.

California’s Central Valley, deep between

Coast Range and Sierra Nevada, had already ovened up.

She kept her window open. She lay back.

The pillow-cases were bright red. She relaxed.

She opened her legs. I went down on her eagerly―

I might say earnestly. Great erotic generosity inspired me,

or so I chose to believe about myself.

Wait. There’s no rush. We have time to instruct anatomy,

biology, and pornography to go away, to leave us alone.

Believe it or not, this poem

          likes its privacy.

Hot, stuffy, small, and cheap, the room
transformed itself. She and I—well,

we took our time. There was no rush. Our time.

Her room. The heat. I took her own sweet time

and gave some of it back to her.

It was sex. Obviously. We
devoured a ripe, wet, hot interval of
life. That’s all and not a little bit.  When

she orgasmed (what a mash of syllables),

she seemed to have nothing to do with the

pseudo-scientific infinitive, to orgasm. She screamed.

That happens to be right. Screamed. Yelled

and shouted, too. It was louder for being privately public.

“Ecstasy”?  I don’t know: That word makes me nervous.

It belongs to romance novels and a drug.

There’s no rush to use it. Anyway, her sounds

were so loud they startled me, and I lost my place.

I smiled while I was turning to cunniling 

into a conjugated, tense present. There was no rush

.

I found my place again, went back to work. 

Play. It was sex, not poetry.

So far so good? I raised my head

from loving work. It is,
can be, good work,—
cunnilingus. It shouldn’t be labor
but can be more than play. . . . I
raised my head to listen to her and to
watch the rest of her body and her face

and take in the holy scene of the room. Is
holy too much? Absolutely, so let’s leave
it, posted on the stucco heap
like a notice from a landlord. I offered
her a pillow with which to muffle the aria,
if she so chose. She chose not so.

Well played! I heard people giggling outside

in California, on the black asphalt of

an apartment-complex’s baked parking lot,

no rush of breeze out there. I smiled, and I

went down again into what had become

for her a rich source of satisfaction, a fabled

California mine, a vein of golden pleasure, a rush.

I’d become a famously employed miner,

producing lavish treasure with simple tools,

tongue and mouth and lips. I exhibited care

and the will to give my head. Such a primitive,

post-modern afternoon it was, whatever

that means. It wasn’t history,

but it was the best we two could do.

She was the only person she’d ever be.
She wanted to be satisfied on a

rickety bed in a blazing, stucco apartment.

I knew her, and I showed up. I

gave her what she invited me to give.

It was basic and civilized, polite,

profane, sacred, and plain. It tasted

and smelled the way it ought to. She became

immortally satisfied for an interval

of afternoon. I swear I still heard

people laughing at sex-sounds coming,

so to shout, from her open window.

I worked at loving, making a delivery,

freighting freedom and joy to the realm

of her body. That’s an overstatement.

I know the names of body-parts,

and so do you. This isn’t about that,

but please see references to tongue, lips,

mouth, legs, and head above. The window,

her legs, my mouth, our lives were open.

You can’t rush these things, but it
ended. I was a sweating, naked man

with a sense of charity, accomplishment,

and gratitude. And it was fun.

She was a contented naked woman,

so I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t

want anything.

 

There’s never been a rush to remember,

and it’s customary to keep such things

private unless your profession is

pornography or politics.  Oh, well,

this is a poem, and poems get interested

in this kind of thing. You know how it is.

Writing this, I feel good about it.

I smile and pay homage to her ecstasy,

which was different from that word.

She filled herself up. She

shouted, my mouth pressed to her

self-possessed body, which thrilled.

I thrilled at fearsome pleasure. There’s

 

no rush, but one must act. Communion

occurs so variously, mysteriously,

sometimes with stucco and asphalt

nearby, and the rent due. I remember

rubbing my face on her thighs and then

on red cotton sheets to get some wet and sweat

off, not all. I licked my lips. I remember

peace, the peace of wordless afterwards. No rush,

no rush at all. If this poem offends or bores you,

you know why, and I hope you didn’t read

this far, but if you did, it’s over now. Be well.

hans ostrom 2006/2022

 

●

he likes the licking, among other things

among other things,

I like to lick when she prefers
the licking. I like the licking part.

I like to lick that part of her, those
parts. I like the part where
I lick her--I like it a lot. a lot
of licking I like until and maybe
somewhat after the lick-assisted

crescendo, which may crescend
with some lively, calling out, including
perhaps a shout. most of all,
I like her liking the licking. her
liking the licking's the point, after

all, crescending or not. playfully,
lovingly, artfully licking: I like that
a lot, among those other things I like.

hans ostrom

The Genre of Sad Erotica

 In the genre of sad erotica, main

characters are tired and smell bad.

They feel too fat or too thin, too old,
too young or too middling. They touch
their bodies like they handle a heap of laundry.

They're hungry but too tired from work
to cook. Could be no one's there
to cook for them. Or someone's there
but mutual indifference grinds
the ambience like a glacier.

Oh, a bath would feel great but only after
booze or weed. Food delivered?
Microwave launched, cans slashed open?
Leftovers devoured like a dog's breakfast?

They sleep in front of a screen and wake
up confused, then vacant. So where's the
erotica? Well, maybe as bath or shower
stimulates flab and muscle, they think about

sex! They think about what sex might
bring. Oblivion of lust, the feeling
of being someone (well, something,
anyway) someone wants to touch. Alas,

in sad erotica, grotesquely realistic,
people get out of the shower and dry
themselves and put on cotton, linen,
or wool. Likely worn several nights
in a row. They walk slowly to a bed
or couch and fall, exhaling like beasts.

In sleep, maybe dreams of purple
romance, sizzling mystery, and molten
sex will riot. Finally, some action.

Seeds in My Bed

Dark brown seeds
in my bed. From bread.
(Bed is a place for sleep,
books, and sex. Beyond
these three, life does have
a few other highlights.)

The seeds look like tiniest
canoes. I'm going to sleep
beside them because I
am not moved to tidy up.

I won't have the recurring
dream of lying flat in a canoe
and floating down a river,
night, many others floating
in their canoes beside me.

The river rivers me
toward a sunny place where
people seem okay and help
me ashore. Because the

brown seeds made me want
to dream that dream,
the law of dreams will not
let me dream it. Goodnight.


hans ostrom 2019

Park and Fly

At the place with the sign that read
"PARK AND FLY" people were parking
their cars, getting out, and flying.

A lot of them roosted in trees
nearby. Up there they tore through
their baggage and briefcases,

grabbing paper, pencils, and wires
I guess to build nests with. Some
people perched on roofs

and huddled shoulder to shoulder,
cheeping or cooing. I think they
just wanted to get away from their

jobs kids pets companions husbands
wives partners televisions poverty
depression phones & asexual routines.

Anyway it was quite a thing, and it
made for an awful commute,
selfish of them really.


hans ostrom 2016

Death of a Myth

The Grudge Master is dead. He's grinding his axes
in Hell. He left us with nothing except our lives,
which from the first moment have not been enough
to sustain us. We're losers because we fight
to the death and then fight Death. Winners
hire people to fight on their behalf
in a fixed game.They use words like "behalf."

It is over It is over Every sign
Every signal, Every seagull and fat cow
has surrendered. We are nothing!
Therefore, celebrate. We are nothing!
Our shields are made of cardboard.
We're lost in a forest set on fire.
We desire someone to arc

her/his back, up and above us,
and come. Come for and by us and
with us. A trivial physical
apotheosis, true, but real and fierce.

We desire the sun, but someone owns
that, too (it had to happen). Ah,
put my profaned body in a cheap box,
throw a blanket in, and bury.
That's all, that's all, the myth is dead.


hans ostrom 2015

Feeling Bad? Try Thinking About Sex

When I get to
feeling bad,
I think about sex,
and I get to feeling better.

I was writing complex,
diffuse poetry
because I thought
I ought to. Now I think,
Why would anybody
want to do such a thing?

In a follow-up move,
I think about sex
and pass quickly through
the awful, damp wooden
tunnel of ambition
to the other side.

I've never been
a terribly chaste
person in spirit.
I'm starting
to feel sad about that fact.

So I think I'll think
about sex and come up
with some kind
of action-plan.


hans ostrom 2015

Just An Acre

If counting and accounting
and statistics count, oh
so to speak, then I have
by that accounting, well,
existed. There is a record
of me. Two questions: Is
there a record of you? And,
if there is, so what?

Women's bodies are
slightly and infinitely
different from
men's bodies. This
difference has fueled
many of my nights
on Earth. If you

would argue about
differentiations
of sex, of gender,
then I applaud you.

I'm just an acre
of existence that
broke off. I'm just
a congregation of
lore, learning,
laziness.



hans ostrom 2013

Sexuality

sexuality
sex you all, mais oui?
sex, oo, ah, & tea
sex, you, quality
sexual equality

sex you wall it. ee!
sex you wallet tee
sex, you all
sex you all at ease

sex, sex, sex
you, you, you
all, all, all,
it, it, it,
y, y, y

sex ual it y
fits you to a T
oh yes yes laugh at me
i like to laugh you see
i like to laugh, Lucy
you laugh, too, you/me
without humor, we

have no sexuality
we must be loose
loose/loosey, oh
sexuality



hans ostrom 2013

Nude Up and Get in a Pile

It may have been a line
from North Dallas Forty.
Anyway, we’d quote it
at the bar and laugh.
The thing is, pre-AIDS,
you might think you
were headed home
in a silver Camaro after
the bars closed
in California’s inimitable
Central Valley.  Then you might
stop at a red light, two lanes,
and two women you knew
barely might laugh, roll
down the window, and
suggest, “Follow us.”
And, wow, there you’d be,
nuded up and in, no,
not a pile, but an expansive
naked arrangement of
three or four or five.
It was a gas, a blast, a trip:
listen to the lingo change
down the ages. Olive oil
on large breasts, the
several positions, good
clean fun. Of course, in
an apartment of your brain,
you knew the party had
to end—that night; and for you;
and for a generation.  Microbes,
maturity, and so on. None-
the-less: at the stop-light,
in a Camaro, a little loaded
on whiskey and weed and
maybe a line: the light,
the spark, of mischief.
Good clean fun in
an era everybody and
his mother, as we said,
would not just forget but
not know existed.

*
*
hans ostrom 2013

Conversation Between A and B

A: Would you rather look at an image or read a page?
B: Read a page.
A: What's the wildest sex you ever had?
B: Define "wild" or "wildest," please.
A: (Defines.)
B: (Answers.)
A: My god, I didn't expect it to have been that wild.
B: It was a long time ago.
A: That's a non sequitur. . . . Would you rather talk on a land-line or send/receive "texts"?
B: Land-line. Or send/receive a letter.
A: You mean paper, stamps, envelopes, closing, opening?
B: I do mean that.
A: How many times have you Skyped?
B: One and one-half.
A: Okay, I think we have enough evidence to suggest that you are old.
B: It was a long time ago.

Sexual Orientation

Sexual Orientation

First of all, what an unusual term. Second,
which parts of the body ought to face east
during sex? Third, if there were a formal
introduction, what society could agree
about who should lead and take
the workshops and what topics should be
covered and uncovered? Fourth, people
aren't ships or compasses. They're
people, and desire is a kind of tautology,
a self-evident definition, a personal
rendition of emotional music. Fifth, the
sun seems to rise, people have sex, the
sun seems to set, people have sex, and
thus has it been so since so long ago, it
seems like forever. Therefore and sixth,
is it past time to love and let love, to
realize adults young, old, and middling
will find their landscapes of desire
using maps that make the most
sense to them and sensing direction
from a most mysterious magnet indeed?


Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom

Sex

There is an online site called poemsabout.com, and as you might infer, it's a massive compendium of poems organized by topic. The lists of topics themselves intrigue. Here's just a piece of the alphabetical list:

africa
alone
america
angel
anger
animal
april
autumn
baby
ballad
beach
beautiful
beauty
believe
birth
brother
butterfly
candy

An arguably interesting writing-prompt would simply be to start with this list, begin making phrases, lines, and sentences (with additional words as needed), and see where the language led one. Richard Hugo advises this kind of approach (in The Triggering Town), when he advises poets to write "off the subject." His logic is that a poet's obsessions will out, one way or another, and that therefore one should concentrate on the medium (language), not the message. In fact, he advises that if you have a choice between conveying your "message" and writing language that is more pleasing than the language that contains the message, go with the pleasing language every time. Of course, much in writers resists such advice, which is counterintuitive because we are accustomed to thinking of language as transmission of message. Elsewhere Hugo humorously writes, "If you want to communicate, use a telephone."

At any rate, when I looked at the topics on poemsabout.com, I realized I'd never written a poem, strictly speaking, about sex. Of course I'd written some poems that referred to sex, one way or another, but I'd never written "sex" at the top of the page and started a poem. Certainly, "sex" seems like a very good topic for a poem; this claims seems indisputable. At the same time, poets who've been writing for a while know that the so-called sex-poem can be simply graphic, pornographic, and/or surprisingly not-sexy--that is to say, boring. Nevertheless, I decided to write a poem entitled "Sex," although the poem itself seems to be as much about language as it is about sex, no surprise there.


Sex


Sex is an excellent syllable, which
detonates meaning and is fillable
with much connotation. Of course
it conjures a deed done and conjugal
entanglements of bodies, when love
or lust gets down to earthy business,
when desire fires itself up and down
and on (and out of) the town. Sex
is also an implied question on a form

that may be answered M or F,
even if you’re in a mood to
answer Yes or No or Maybe So,
or "I'll get back to you later" or
"What about it?"Sex is not solely
one thing or two but more
than a few and human, too.

Sex at times is a semiotic nexus
(how sexual that sounds!) suggesting
bawdy, haughty, naughty, hottie
bodies, which touch and much more
in sex’s neck of the woulds and coulds,
the musts and lusts. Sometimes sex is
subtly intimated simply by the two-letter
syllable, it, as in getting it on, doing it,
making it, and even, alas, faking it. Oh

yes, there’s that other effing eff-word,
the one that rhymes with truck
and gets so often stuck in awkward syntactical
positions. Sex is life in frenzied love
with itself, all lips and hips, rounds
and flats, sultry strategies and tender
tactics, loads of lust and convoys
of cupidity, sensual consensual
congress. Sex can cause stupidity—
would you agree?—and vice versa.
Sex is a state of union, an exhilarating
expiration, a getting up, a getting with
it, a going down, a fear and fondness
of flying, a finding out and a knowing
about. It has been known to be
a bit of a chore, an occasional bore.
It’s mysterious and base, crude and holy,
much cause for consternation,
controversy, rules, and fools. Sex
is something else again. And again.

Hans Ostrom Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom