Bricks

I'm living in a brick house for the first time in my life. I like it just fine. Brick houses always look appealing from the street because you don't see peeling paint, and bricks pretty much stay bricks: they hold their shape and color. I've heard that brick houses don't fare too well in earthquakes, but I don't know that for a fact.

My father, a stone mason, loathed bricks. Basically, he refused to lay them. I think the process was simply too boring for him, and although he would have been furious if someone had referred to him as an "artist," he liked the fact that no two rock walls or fireplaces looked the same. He liked composing the things.

We've always bought highly used homes--a couple were even Victorians houses, ancient by American standards. No matter how much the previous occupant cleans up outside, there always seem to be things of interest (but of no or little use) left behind, such as an oddly shaped piece of metal, a broken chair, or just one brick. The just one brick is the topic of this poem.

Brick

A brick never set
into wall or walkway

seems all rectangular

for nothing, red out
of embarrassment or alarm:

Brick emergency! I need

to be part of something,
mortared into solidarity!

The isolated brick gives

the impression of being aware
of its situation, although

that is impossible.

What will happen?

Weather will get to it.
Or it will break. Anyway

it’ll return to soil, finish
the trip from clay to mold

to kiln to being brick to dirt.

Recommended Poems

I use a huge anthology in one of my courses, and the book is one of the best of its kind I've seen in a while. It's The Wadsworth Anthology of Poetry, edited by Jay Parini.

The other day, I told the students that each of them could pick any poem at all from the massive book--a favorite of theirs we hadn't yet discussed in class. Most of the students are 20-21 years old, so although the sample is statistically unreliable, the list of poems the students chose does provide a window on what some "youths" [of course, this must be pronounced "yutes," as Joe Pesci's character pronounces it in My Cousin Vinny] like in the way of poetry. Here's the list, in no particular order:

"My Grandmother's Love Letters," by Hart Crane
"America," by Robert Creeley
"since feeling is first," by e.e. cummings
"Morning Song," by Sylvia Plath
"Night Mirror," by Li-Young Lee
"Lucy Gray," by William Wordsworth
"Fog," by Carl Sandburg
"Those Winter Sundays," by Robert Hayden
"America," by Allen Ginsberg
"Ode to the Beautiful Nude," by Pablo Neruda
"The Road Not Taken," by Robert Frost
"The Idea of Order at Key West," by Wallace Stevens
In Memoriam, by Alfred Tennyson
Howl, by Allen Ginsberg

Holding Back; Emerson

Here's a lesser known poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson:

Forebearance

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun;
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk;
At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse;
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust;
And loved so well a high behavior
In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
Nobility more nobly to repay?—
O be my friend, and teach me to be thine!

This is a complex little poem. It certainly is about holding back, refraining from killing birds when looking at them will do just fine; from picking a wild rose; from letting fear get the better of you in a tough situation; and--perhaps my favorite--refraining from complimenting someone for their good behavior. In one sense, of course, we have been taught that such compliments, when properly offered, are polite and generous. Emerson's poem seems to suggest, however, that there are times when withholding the compliment leaves all the nobility to the person who behaved nobly; one refrains from "joining in," I guess, or from basking in the other person's glow. Perhaps the one puzzling reference is to being invited to a rich man's "table"--to his house for dinner--and to be served "bread and pulse." In this case, "pulse" doesn't refer to heart-beats or, obliquely, blood. It refers to food deriving from anything in the bean-family--probably a kind of mash made of beans. So I guess if you're invited to a rich man's house and expect the food to measure up to the stock-portfolio and instead you get "mere" bread and beans, hold back. Don't complain or let on that you're disappointed. Eat what is put before you. Thank the hosts.

I enjoy the last line very much because the speaker suggests that he's "not quite there yet." He can admire forebearance but hasn't gotten the hang of it yet, so he'd like a forebearing friend to teach him.

I believe the poem was published in 1842. Sometimes now you see forebearance spelled without the e after r.

Since Emerson's often linked to (Walt) Whitman in a Transcendental way, I thought I'd toss in a little poem about the sort of person who is not Whitman-like, who prefers not to "sing myself" (sing herself), who holds back (the "light under a bushel-basket syndrome"):

Not Whitman

She, too, would sing herself
if such a song seemed not so
indulgent, presumptuous.
She leaves her blades of grass
lying under drifts of reticence.
What she knows, you may
know, but only if you ask,
and even then she may answer
only by asking you to sing a little
something of yourself.

Copyright 2007 Hans Ostrom

Why Do I Like Crows?

My sense of things is that crows are not popular. They're large, loud, and insistent--and these traits are supposed to be exclusively human, aren't they? There are a lot of crows in a lot of places, and if your residence or place of work is next to tall trees, there may well be crow- families in your neighborhood. The nests are huge. The perch on top of schooners and whalers wasn't called the crow's nest for nothing. Crows don't sing or do acrobatics in the air. They're very clear about the fact that they're not here for our entertainment. They seem to eat anything, as do seagulls (are both considered carrion-birds?), but most people think seagulls have some counter-balancing positive attributes.

I like crows, even when they dive at me as I walk across campus in Spring. I don't know exactly why I like them. As with cats, their selfishness doesn't seem personal; it's just business. That may appeal to me. --Although I doubt if either crows or cats would enjoy the comparison.

Once Ted Hughes published his book-length collection of crow-poetry, aptly named Crow, the rest of us were left to pick up scraps, rather like crows. I guess the same might be said of Hopkins and his falcon-poem, "The Windhover," although Yeats, at least, managed to write an equally famous poem that included falcon-imagery (in the service of his idiosyncratic "gyre" theory of history): "The Second Coming." And Robinson Jeffers went ahead and wrote his hawk poems. This business about someone's having written "the last word" on a subject can't be taken literally by poets, after all. One must press on. So here's a crow-poem, but it's really more about why on earth I'm partial to crows:

Annual Interrogative

Crows in soupy light stomp
around broad lawns, pick at buffets
of bugs, shake sandwich-wrappers.
Perturbation is part of
the ravenous package of traits crows
have hauled with them over eons.
These birds have something to say
as they lift themselves and climb
the wind clumsily. They complain,
harangue, object, savage, and smart-off;
they pronounce CAW in several dialects,
are more menacing when they’re
silent, hopping sideways, holding
a grudge with an open beak, fixing
you with a stare, filing away your
coordinates for later air-attacks.
They’re miffed, moody, pessimistic, and
heavy-footed. Why I like them
more than more charming birds
is an annual interrogative I caw—
why?!—to myself.

Copyright 2007 Hans Ostrom

William Miller; Golf Poems

Here is a splendid poem by William Miller that gives us a fresh perspective on golf. The poem is from findarticles.com. Copyright information appears after the poem.

Night Golf

by William Miller

After dusk, on moonlit nights,
the caddies returned to play
their version of the game.

Once more, it was a black
and white world, though
they owned it now,
tamed the course
shot by shot.

They learned to play
by feel, almost like
blind men swinging
in the shadows.

But they got better
than any mill owner
who played his poor game
of slice and curse.

One day they would play,
prove themselves
forever in the daylight world.

That day was coming soon,
or so they hoped,
as they carried heavy bags
in the hot sun
for men who called
the oldest, "boy."

"William Miller teaches African American literature
and creative writingat York College of Pennsylvania.
He has published four books of poetry and
eleven books for children. COPYRIGHT 2002
African American Review."
* * * * *

Golf

by Hans Ostrom

On vast manicured pastures,
eccentric members of an obscure religious cult
seek the hard white spherical fruit
of the mythical snow-tree. Smaller
than a plum, the nutty fruit sometimes
soars away from these people; sometimes
it bounds like a rabbit into the woods;
or rolls like a perfect ice-ball
formed by a child's hands, only
to come to rest, and to melt,
in a patch of pale sand in the pasture.

Morose assistants accompany the members
of the cult and carry bags of arcane, ceremonial
weapons. Sometimes the believers stand
over the white delicacy as if they were grieving.
Sometimes, with enormous, sad deliberation,
they push away the nut with one of the weapons,
which seems more sword than club, more club
than sword. The rolling nut disappears into
a tiny rodents' hole. The believer then retrieves it,

examines it with something like regret,
then hands it to his or her assistant. People
from the village sometimes observe these
inscrutable rituals. They gather in groups,
herded behind ropes. Sometimes they applaud,
as if commanded to do so. Mostly they watch
in anxious silence. They concentrate on
the believers' every move, even when
a believer is merely walking and the white
nut is not nearby. No one seems to know
what any of this activity means.

Copyright 2007 Hans Ostrom

Speak For Yourself

Warning. Red alert. Or at least maybe a burnt-umber alert. (I need to find out what umber is and who first burned to make that color.) Preachy poem ahead. Detour advised.

Can’t Complain, Am Concerned

Life provides me with assistance,
which includes oxygen, sunshine,
water, memory, blueberries, garlic,
recordings of Dinah Washington,
Rubenstein, and Johnny Cash,
cardamom, bookstores, a bed,
birds, and affection. Such largesse.

I’m wealthier than royalty
of previous eras, travel more
comfortably than Vikings,
Marco Polo, and Eisenhower.
I don’t have very much power,

one might allege,
but the same one might cite
my extraordinary American
imperial privilege.

Mere me, ordinary I: I
am one of the most expensive
people in history. I’ve worked,
but who hasn’t? There are a few,
I know, but for many, just
living is the hardest job of all.

A question of society
persists, is more than a
question of propriety:
how shall those who have
behave toward themselves
with regard to those who have
not or much less? Shall we bless
ourselves by making the
blessings go further, as a frugal person does
with what a frugal person has?
Or shall we condemn ourselves
by doing no good with having it good?

“Speak for yourself.” A fair point.
What is it I should
be doing to do the best with doing well?
is a question worth my asking myself.
"Shut up." Consider it done.

Hans Ostrom

Skaters Captured

I'll continue my intermittent posting of Imagists' poems with one by John Gould Fletcher (1886-1950):

The Skaters

by John Gould Fletcher

BLACK swallows swooping or gliding
In a flurry of entangled loops and curves,
The skaters skim over the frozen river.
And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the surface
Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver.

(The word "surface" belongs at the end of the fourth line in this five-line poem.) This poem embodies the Imagists' dicta of treating "the thing" (usually something experienced through the senses, not a concept like "love") directly, writing sparely, and not being obligated to use conventional verse-forms or even previously common verse-techniques like rhyming. Although the Imagists often didn't rhyme or write in verse-forms like the sonnet or the ballad, they still paid great attention to language and the sounds of words, as this poem shows. "[T]he grinding click" seems like the perfect way to describe the sound of skates on ice. Maybe, like me, you think of Gerard Manley Hopkins' "The Windhover," in which Hopkins compares a hawk's flight to skating, just as here Fletcher compares the skaters to swallows in flight, and there certainly is a sense in which swallows, perhaps even more than hawks, skate on the air.

Lorine Niedecker: Nothing Personal

I just ran across a curious, humorous poem by Lorine Niedecker (1903-1970), a native of Wisconsin and a poet often grouped with William Carlos Williams and Hilda Doolittle because of her spare rhetoric and imagery. Here is the poem:

My Friend Tree

by Lorine Niedecker


My friend tree

I sawed you down

but I must attend

an older friend

the sun.


from The Academy of American Poets site: http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/729

When we see the title, "My Friend Tree," we're likely to dread reading the poem because we assume it will feature sentimental personification of the tree. Well, in this one we get the personification, but it's nothing personal; it's just business: the tree has to come down, presumably to let some light in. The phrasing is child-like in its simplicity and funny because of how the speaker breaks the news to the tree, after it's been sawed down. Niedecker's background was working-class, I gather, and she lived for a long time on an island in Wisconsin, so I can envisage her sawing down a tree.

Mary Ann Wishes For Rose-Rain

I was talking with a colleague who is teaching a course that includes the great Victorian novel, Middlemarch, by George Eliot, pen name of Mary Ann Evans. We were observing that many passages in the novel are poetic because the phrasing is so superb, heightened without going over the top. Here is a little poem by George Eliot:

ROSES

You love the roses - so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!

George Eliot [Mary Ann Evans] 1819-1880

I find much to like in this little blank-verse poem. The speaker addresses "You" and even mentions that this "You" loves roses. But by the end of line one, the poem has turned permanently to what the speaker loves, wishes for, and imagines. What a great surprise. We think the poem is going to be "to" and "about" this "You," but it's not. The poem seems to be literally about rose-rain and figuratively about wishing for something you know won't happen but enjoying the wishing just the same. Comparing roses or rose-petals to sweet-smelling feather is good, too, even if "light as feathers" is and probably already was a cliche.

Interim Report

"Interim" is a good word. It sounds nice, for one thing, and it starts with a stressed syllable. It would be a good word with which to start a poem in that most difficult (for poets writing in English) meter, dactylic, in which each three-syllable unit must begin with a stressed syllable and end with two unstressed syllables. Unless I'm mistaken, Longfellow's poem Hiawatha is composed in dactylic meter.

I believe interim was lifted directly from Latin, and a few hundred years ago, one might say, "Interim, I'll get a new horse," meaning "In the meantime, I'll get new horse." So one was simply mixing two languages, Latin and English. I guess we do that sometimes now when we say something like, "See you manana,"and I'm sorry I don't know how to get that mark over the first n.

Later, interim became a noun:

1579-80 NORTH Plutarch (1676) 918 The Wars that fell out in the interim were a hindrance.

This is from the OED online. Here interim means what it means now--a period in between two other periods. And that's an interesting sentence translated from Plutarch, by the way: very understated and very British (even though it's not originally British): wars were "a hindrance." I'll say!

Nowadays you hear or read interim used as an adjective. "She was appointed interim director of the zoo."

Here is an "interim report" in the form of a poem:

Interim Report

Most of my memories—
good, bad, mixed—
concern instances and means
of trying to cope.

Nostalgia is largely lost
on me. Because the world
is none of my doing—nor
should it be—I’ve tried

to get by, discern terrain,
keep two eyes on those
in power, survive humanity
and nature. All this takes up

most of my time, thus most
of my memories.
How has it been so
far for you?

Copyright 2007 Hans Ostrom

A November Poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter, Sr.

Joseph Seamon Cotter, Sr., was a pioneering African American poet whose life and work bridged the era of slavery (he was born in 1861) and the era in which modern African American literature flourished in the Harlem Renaissance and continued to grow in the decades ahead (he died in 1949, preceded in death by his son, Joseph Jr., also a poet). I enjoy Cotter Sr.'s poem about November very much and post it here as we find ourselves in that month again:

November

by Joseph Seamon Cotter, Sr.

Old November, sere and brown,
Clothes the country, haunts the town,
Sheds its cloak of withered leaves,
Brings its sighing, soughing breeze.
Prophet of the dying year,
Builder of its funeral bier,
Bring your message here to men;
Sound it forth that they may ken
What of Life and what of Death
Linger on your frosty breath.
Let men know to you are given
Days of thanks to God in heaven;
Thanks for things which we deem best,
Thanks, O God, for all the rest
That have taught us—(trouble, strife,
Bring through Death a larger life)—
Death of our base self and fear—
(Even as the dying year,
Though through cold and frost, shall bring
Forth a new and glorious spring)—
Shall shed over us the sway
Of a new and brighter day,
With Hope, Faith and Love alway.

The first four lines read so well that they are a poem within a poem.

Country and Western Song

My father's day-job was carpentry and stone-masonry, but for several years he took a second job as a bartender. My uncle owned the bar, The Buckhorn in Sierra City, California, and it had a juke box that played 78 rpm records. My father brought home some of the records that were removed to make way for new ones. So I grew up listening to "Folsom Prison Blues" and "Big River" by Johnny Cash, "North to Alaska" by Johnny Horton, and songs by Kitty Wells, Eddie Arnold, the Sons of the Pioneers, and many others.

I think FPB is still my favorite country song. I also like Hank Penny's "Bloodshot Eyes," Patsy Cline's "Crazy," Marty Robbins' "El Paso," and different renditions of "Ghost Riders in the Sky." "Honky Tonk Angel" is pretty good, too. I can't stand most contemporary C & W. It's just corporate pablum, awful stuff. That's why Johnny Cash loathed the Nashville establishment.

Country and western lyrics are extremely difficult to write, perhaps most especially for poets, because they require such simplicity, more simplicity than is in what poets think of as their simplest poems. Of course, they have to have a sense of the common folk, too. In this respect, they're like the blues.

Obviously, I'm claiming that they're difficult to write because I've written some, and they're not very good. Oh, well. I think I hear the train a-coming, so here are the lyrics (and I did manage to sneak in the word "cash"):

I Hate My Job

Verse 1:

My boss’s head is bigger than his backside.
His backside is bigger than his car.
What I need costs more than what I make.
My paycheck goes a mile less than far.

Chorus:

I hate my job.
I can’t stand it.
But I need the cash.
So I can’t quit.

I hate my job.
But I can’t quit.
Gotta feed my family.
And that’s just it.

Verse 2:

Where I work the higher-ups
Are dumber than the dirt.
They pay me only what they want,
But never what I’m worth.

Chorus.

Bridge:

Working men and working women:
They make this country go.
But the way that we get treated
Is dirty, mean, and low.

Verse 3:

I get up and go to work each day.
But I’ve forgotten why.
If I don’t get a day off soon,
I might fall down and die.

Chorus.

Copyright Hans Ostrom 2007

Faux Fall Rant

One of the great "rant" poems in American literature announces itself, with its title, as a rant-poem: Allen Ginsberg's Howl, which harnesses the power of counter-cultural, anti-Establishiment outrage to a kind of Old Testament prophetic oratory. Amiri Baraka's "A New Reality Is Better Than a New Movie" (1972) is a durable poem in this "genre," too. Langston Hughes, who is not customarily associated with "rant" poems, actually wrote many of them, especially in the 1930s. They were often connected to labor-issues and to opposing imperialism and racism.

Faux rants are an interesting form of expression, too. The ones politicians, shock-jocks, and talk-show hosts go on are frequently too predictable, fallacious, and grotesque to enjoy. I much prefer the ones delivered by the real professionals, stand-up comedians. Don Rickles had a good "rant" act, but the part where he insulted people in the audience or on the set made me uncomfortable. Lewis Black has perfected the faux rant or "angry act." He never attacks anybody in the audience, and he peforms a clever, cathartic outrage directed at things going wrong in the culture-at-large. When he's not doing the act and (for example) just being interviewed, he's quite reserved, generous, unpretentious, and smart.

Here's a faux-rant against Autumn. One problem Autumn poses for poets is that it's Autumn and not just Fall. Another problem is that at least 5 billion poems have been written about Autumn, most of them including images of leaves, of course.

Like everybody else, I rather like Fall, so the poem is obviously a schtick, and it masks the real frustration, which almost all poets feel when they sit down (or stand up) to write an Autumn poem. So to all those fans of Autumn out there: remember that this is a faux rant.

Against Autumn

I don't like Autumn or Fall, and nobody even knows
what "Autumn" means. Enough with the colorful leaves already!
They're dead. That's why they fell, not because they're colorful
or symbolize anything, okay? Scientists should turn deciduous
trees and shrubs into evergreens--or ever-oranges or ever-
browns. Even ever-pinks would be fine, as long as the leaves
stayed glued to branches. Fall is a tedious road
from Summer to Winter. It's loaded with work
and school, and there's almost no place to pull over
and rest. Its holidays--Halloween and Thanksgiving--
have become ludicrous, taken over by the sugar
industry, the Hollywood horror-sequel factory,
Pilgrim coloring-books, stupid TV decorating-shows,
turkeys on steroids, and dysfunctional airports.
People shoot lots of animals,
and sometimes each other, in Autumn, out there on
private hunting-ranches and in groomed forests.
How would you like to be a pheasant, a deer,
a duck, a quail, or the Vice President's friend
in Autumn, huh? Concussions occur in football
games on Autumn's Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays.
This is a fact. In fact, the n would fall like a dead leaf off
autumn if it weren't for the word autumnal, so
couldn't we get used to saying awtoomal or
awtoomistic or even fallish (but not fallic)?!
I'm sick of the silent n in Autumn, and I've
had it with Fall. Harvests don't happen
in Autumn anymore anyway. I see squash, spuds,
and apples in the store year-round. This
is called proof. So I say
Shut it down! Shut down autumn! Winter,
Spring, and Summer would each stretch more than
a week longer, and how could anybody
be opposed to that? I oppose Autumn.

Copyright 2007 Hans Ostrom