Photosynthetic Poem

A.R. Ammons (in the selected poems from W.W. Norton) has a nice little poem entitled "Photosynthesis," which I enjoyed reading very much. No good poetic deed must go unpunished, however, so I decided to write a photosynthetic poem of my own, not to compete with A.R., mind you (to him I concede the victory), but just to see what I might do with the subject.

Photosynthesis

Wherever you enter the story,
the story's amazing: Single cell
meets ball of fire, and epics
of vegetation ensue--algae,
sequoia, peat, fig, cacti.

Human history's an offshoot
of photosynthesis, a cud
chewed by divine bovinity
in green time. Whenever we

enter the story, we cast our
shadow, insert our names for
plants and stuff, study and
disrupt processes, maybe just
grab a salad for lunch, so busy.

Let's just let the scythe, mower,
chainsaw, tiller, test-tube, and gene-
splicer sit for an hour. Let's lie
in wonder under photosynthetic
boughs, yawn our wows amidst
leaf-dappled mottling of light,
graze in amazement.

Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom

Recount

When is a good film unwatchable? When the subject-matter is too disgusting. I made it through about 40 minutes of HBO's well crafted Recount, all about the 2000 election and the disintegration of faux democracy in Florida, not to mention the Supreme Court. But eventually I became too queasy. It all seems quite farcical until you connect the misdeeds by vacuous Katherine Harrison and amphibious James Baker to all the civilians and others dead in Iraq, the tortured in Guantanamo, the abandoned in New Orleans, Dick Cheney as Veep, Valerie Plame outed, warrantless wiretaps, a diseased Justice Department, a collapsed dollar, diplomacy adrift, incompetence as a mode of governing, and so on. Forget politics; just with regard to basic competence, Bush is so bad that James Baker probably regrets helping him get appointed to the presidency. That's pretty bad.

If your political and cinematic stomachs are stronger than mine, I hope you watch Recount. It was executively produced by the late Sydney Pollack and nicely written. Kevin Spacey, Tom Wilkinson, and Dennis Leary are wonderful, but Laura Dern steals the thing as the benumbed Harrison.

New Environs

The new neighborhood, into which we moved a couple weeks ago, has brought surprises. It's on the western slope of Tacoma, although T-Town is broken up geologically with deep gullies, so any slope, western or not, won't be a smooth one. In any event. the place is perched on a wee knoll close to the Narrows. We get to see all the weather come in from the Pacific, and a landscape-person we know claims that this part of T-Town has a micro-climate--wetter and warmer than the rest of Tacoma. The gardeners in the neighborhood--and in Tacoma, just about everyone is some kind of gardener--therefore experiment with plants of a semi-tropical nature, as well as growing the usual rhodies, azaleas, and evergreen shrubs/trees. A fellow blogger residing in Hawaii who knows something about Tacoma will find the reference to "semi-tropical" ridiculous, no doubt.

As with many American neighborhoods, this one is really neither working-class nor middle-class. Average income might put it into the latter class, but the range of occupations varies considerably. The neighborhood looks conventionally suburban--built in the 1960s, so "rambler" style houses more or less predominate, but it appears not to be a cookie-cutter tract. What you don't see are the Victorians and Craftsman houses that dominate the North End of T-Town--houses that are cheek-by-jowl and feature lots of stairs and small rooms.

The biggest surprise out here on the slope, at least for me, is the ethnic diversity. Yes, you have your basic Euro-Americans. My early working-hypothesis is that if there's an RV in the yard, the family is probably Anglo-American. I'd be happy to have the hypothesis disproved. I wonder if there are good RV ethnographies out there.

African Americans, Asian Americans (with considerable variety within this category), Hispanic Americans, and folks from the former Soviet Union dwell hereabouts as well. I know some of the latter come from Moldavia because I heard them say so. Others may come from Russia-proper or the Ukraine. I don't know. The older generation likes to walk around the neighborhood as if it were a village, and I guess in a way it is. The women wear scarves and woolen skirts. The men wear sport-coats and hats. That is, they remind me of some of the older folks from my hometown, which featured one Russian named Wanda, who'd get all dressed up and walk her two bull-dogs to "town" every day--"town" being a micro-village of 200 in the Sierra Nevada. It's not for me to say, really, but I think Wanda belonged in St. Petersburg, strolling the Nevsky Prospekt. But she married an American house-painter, and somehow they ended up in Sierra City. I still remember her long cashmere red coat.

There are two large hills between where we live and where we buy things, including groceries, so the aerobic opportunities are good, and when I'm out walking, the Moldavians are usually out, too. I wish I spoke their language. I sincerely enjoy how unamused, wary, but not unfriendly their visages appear. The older faces especially seem to report having experienced but survived much in life.

So far the western slope has been full of great surprises. I have informed our cat, a Russian blue, that Moldavians are hereabouts. So far, she has not registered a comment in response.

Nub of the Matter

Nub of the Matter

I hate to break this news to me,
but logic dictates I don't matter.
Out of not much matter, I am made,
and such matter as I do comprise
does not export significance.

Particles of matter disperse and reconvene anew,
I know. Any one state of particulate
coherence may be lovely (rhododendron
flower, son's smile) or may be me, whom
I like well enough, but in any case, what
so ensues? In relation to everything,
I'm merest particle of perpetual change.

Only matter can make me. I've already
been made up. Dissolution's penciled in
on a calendar Heraclitus keeps next
to his river of fire. Only God can make
me matter. This is the nub of the matter,
the God's honest truth.

Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom

Nostalgia for Nothing

Nostalgia for Nothing

The things I don't remember
about childhood are the ones
I miss the most: nights I
slipped quickly into untroubled
sleep, pine-boughed days through
which I tumbled and pretended--
I'm just guessing here. How exotic

the town of Childhood seems.
To think: I once lived there, or so
I tell me. Childhood is a village
with its own sun and moon,
a silver silo full of long days,
a golden clock-tower. It is
a place filled with people
who passed on from here.

Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom

How to be a Cat

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*How To Be A Cat

Be the noble curator of your excellence, for
fate made you perfect. In all things, be precise:
standing, sitting, staring, walking, sniffing, eating,
sleeping, killing. Never look in mirrors,
which are windows for the insecure. Sleep
in a variety of comfortable places, which
were created for you alone. Make acquaintances,
never friends. The latter tend to cling.

All phenomena are potential enemies. Therefore,
stare, listen, listen, stare, sniff, stare, listen, sniff,
hide, stare, and listen. Never perform tricks. Leave
those to dogs, who need to be wanted and want
to be liked. Talk as necessary, but never just
to chit-chat. Crack the whip of feline fury as
you wish. Keep the blades of your four feet sharp
and retracted like long-held resentments. Let
your soul's motor idle and strum the taut cord
of your body. No one owns you.

God made you and likes you best. In a world
that's dubious, you are certain. You never
make mistakes. You are entitled to what
you want; otherwise, why would you want it?
No matter what else you may be undertaking,
never be reticent to stop and groom yourself,
for you are superb, and self-maintenance
doubles as self-admiration. You are a cat,
a form of beauty that enters stealthily,
naps, and agrees to be admired. You
are a cat. Everything is as it should be.


Hans Ostrom
Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom

Folk Music

Folk Music

Some strumming sums up sundown,
down on the brown bank by a riverside--
be it banjo, guitar, mandolin--or
some kind of eerie zephyr overloaded
with the recently departed. "How did it
get started--this music?" Good question.
Save it for later. Now we must listen
to thump, pluck, and twang, above which
is sung a rough, melodious tale. The song
roots us to a plowed heritage, a furrowed
alluvial communal pain, a bedecked extravagance
of crops, and fatal work. Yes, we must drop
what we're thinking and listen for and under
a spell, hear harmonies swell against apron,
shack-wall, levee, and archive. The instruments
are made of wood. So are the trees. The songs
are made of air. So is the wind. The people
are made of memories. So are the songs,
the folks' songs.

Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom

Wary Souls

Wary Souls

The soul enters
a public realm,
so soon becomes
the fool

by feeling it
must say or do
too much--dance
with Rule,

court Expectation.
Pride-inflation
balloons the soul,
who abhores

but can't elude
the puffery patrol.
Relentless baiters
of the soul,

ubiquitous louts:
shame on them.
Godspeed to those
souls who can

remain intact
and self-contained--
looking out of eyes,
sensing what is wise.

Wary souls--
seen them?
I have. They
wait and watch.

I watch and
wait for them
to exemplify for
me a better path.


Copyright Hans Ostrom 2008

This and That

Is there a large American media-outlet that can still practice worthy journalism? I doubt it. The NYT--either by choice or through incompetence--promulgated Bush's nonsense about about why we should invade and occupy Iraq. Tonight, CNN characterized Scott McClellan's "revelations" (Bush was more interested in propaganda than truth!) as a "bombshell." I can't wait for tomorrow's report concerning the fact that rain comes from clouds. . . .

. . . .Has anyone explored the possibilities of lunar power? Before I concede that I'm a lunatic, here's what I mean: the gravitational competition between Earth and Moon yanks the oceans around, creating huge forces of water that are not unlike the forces of water in dams. Why couldn't some smart engineers come up with a design for under-water turbines, strategically placed at, say, the Tacoma Narrows?

. . . .I'll need to be convinced that Obama can beat McCain. I know he beat Clinton, but McCain's campaign may be even more competent than hers--imagine that. And so far, I can't name one state that "voted" for Bush that won't vote for McCain.

. . . .I do wish someone would ask McCain and Obama who their favorite poets and novelists are. I realize there are four or five million more pressing issues out there, but I think the answers would serve as an ink-blot test.

. . . . .Tomorrow I'm going to hear a lecture by an expert in Science, Technology, and Society; by a biologist; and by an archaeologist who specializes in Holy Land digs. The topic is "Creation and Science." The Jesuits perceive no tension between humankind's science and God's creation, nor do I. For the sake of argument, let us assume that something, some force, created what is. Scientists study what is, or at least what they think is. What's the problem? I do not subscribe to the "intelligent design" "theory" because it is anthropomorphic. What we deem "intelligent" must seem moronic to any entity more intelligent than we are, including God. There's a good chance we are, at best, the rubes of the galaxy, if not of this sector of the universe. After all, we have fouled our nest. Not even birds do that.

What I'm Reading Now

Not that you asked, but here's what I'm reading (and I usually have 5-6 books going at once, a practice that drives some people with different reading habits figuratively crazy):

The Long Loneliness, Dorothy Day's autobiography--of interest to those wanting to know more not just about her but about radical politics in the early 20th century (socialism, anarchist-movements, organized labor, "distributism," anti-war movements, etc.), the Catholic Worker movement, whether politics and religion can intermingle effectively, women and religion, working-class life in Chicago and New York City, and the progressive/populist strain in Catholicism. Oddly enough, Day experienced the great S.F. earthquake, although she and her family were living in Berkeley, so their home wasn't destroyed. Apparently, the quake-proper lasted over 2 minutes. Of course, animals felt it coming as early as the evening before, she and others report.

Early Christian Rhetoric, Amos Wilder--older brother of Thornton.

The Beggar, by Naguib Mahfouz--Egyptian novelist, winner of the Nobel Prize.

The Walls of Jericho, a novel by Harlem Renaissance writer Rudolph Fisher. This partly for work, as I agreed to write an article on Fisher.

Selected Poems, A.R. Ammons. He was born in North Carolina but is associated, too, with New England. Free verse, but highly attentive to sound; rooted in everyday life, as W.C. Williams's poetry is, but Ammons strays from imagism and often writes tight little conceptual or meditative poems. I rather like this philosophical aspect of his poetry. He's also a master of very short poems. He can be whimsical, like cummings.

My books were finally paroled from storage, but they are in a half-way house situation--still sitting in boxes, awaiting the construction of shelves. More slowly than the tortoise, I'm cataloguing them on LibraryThing.

That's my bookish update. I'll leave you (or someone) with an epigram from Oscar Wilde: "A cynic knows the price of everything but the value of nothing."

More Epigrams

Epigrams are satisfying to try to write also because they are free-standing assertions, the rest of the essay having disappeared or never materialized. This situations is quite pleasing when one wearies of encumbering his or her opinions with evidence. Sententiousness Lite! I do encourage you to write epigrams, of which there cannon be an over-abundance.

Some additional epigrams:

1. No one has ever said to me, "Your Majesty, I beseech you"; what a curious oversight.

2. There are no beautiful cities.

3. It's no accident that we haven't heard much about Pavlov's Cat.

4. If regret were the same as repair, I'd feel better about the past.

5. The Earth is a function of the sun, which is an obscure star, so let's not get ahead of ourselves.

6. Destiny is a manifestly melodramatic concept.

7. Hope is one way wisdom expresses fondness for folly.

8. Reason is like a long, well mapped road. We should take it as far as it goes but know it will stop; then we must rely on something else.

9. Poverty is hell.

10. Evil is inexplicable.

11. Memo to self: You are here because some people were generous and other people were mistreated; therefore, you should be thankful and mindful.

12. A cold night is nobody's friend. A mild evening is nobody's enemy.

13. Receiving an award is a way in which one's obscure future tricks one's gullible present.

14. If, in a stressful situation, you don't know what else to do, then drink some water, eat some food, and take a nap.

15. Atheists should have enough faith in atheism not to try to convert believers.

16. If you feel compelled to smell left-over food to determine whether it's edible, it isn't.

17. Never stand in line to give someone money.

18. If in doubt about your behavior, tell the truth and then apologize.

19. Humility is the temporary suspension of the amnesis that led one to forget he or she is flawed and unimportant.

20. Whatever a cat does is done for a good reason, which is not always apparent to humans.

21. God is everything added together plus one.

22. Grace is the sum that results from adding love to absurdity.

23. Faith is getting out of bed after you have slept and going to sleep after you have been awake.

24. Of course we must seek answers, and of course we must expect that when we find them, they will have changed the questions.

25. A system which demands conformity is not sure about its rationale for being and is probably in flight from its inherent flaws. A system is more likely to adapt and to thrive when it is able to absorb creative tension and the interplay of difference.

Epigrams

I've always liked reading epigrams. Sometimes they're jokes, as in Twain's "Wagner's music is better than it sounds," sometimes they're bits of folk-wisdom ("A stitch in time saves nine"), and sometimes they're philosophical appetizers, as in "Narrative is the art of making time legible," which I think Kate Haake wrote, but I'm not sure--she may have adapted it from someone.

I've long wanted to write epigrams; perhaps very short poems qualify as such. When I have the pithy phrasing ready, the wisdom-part fails me, and when I'm able at least to fake some wisdom, the pithiness isn't there, but I decided to forge on and write some.

Epigrams

1. Most epigrams are too sententious to love but too brief to resent.

2. Epigrams are linguistic actors pretending to be wisdom; they are the bit-players of philosophical drama.

3. A good question is a great gift. A great question is a revelation.

4. Ultimately, competition is tedious, and cooperation is intriguing.

5. Prayer is the art of being still when your mind wants to be in flight.

6. Poetry is a way language plays with humans.

7. All friendships should last longer.

8. All novels could be shorter; even in almost perfect novels, there's at least one extra word.

9. One's name is an accident that feels like an inevitability.

10. If you're illiterate, you can't read this, but you will not have missed anything.

Blog-Map of Sweden

I just found a blog-map of Sweden. What's not to like about that?

http://bloggkartan.se/klick/

I wonder if there's a blog-map of the U.S.