Ambidexterity

I've heard that genuine ambidexterity in humans is relatively rare, but I've read so little about the subject, I know virtually nothing about it. Neurologists have probably discovered some fascinating things on the subject.

One of my brothers is ambidextrous. He writes with his right hand, plays baseball left-handed, for example. He can do many things with equal acumen with either hand. Because he batted left-handed, he taught me to hit the baseball left-handed, from the right side of the plate. Therefore, I was one of those rare baseball players who "bats left, throws right" as they used to say on baseball cards. Otherwise, I was not a rare baseball player, if you get my drift. On my best day, I went 3-for-3, with one walk, and no errors in the outfield. Cool.

I am also a left-handed golfer, and a terrible one; nonetheless, I have a special interest in the careers of Bob Charles (retired now, I believe) and Phil Mickelson. The interesting thing about left-handed golfers is that they're not simply the mirror image of right-handed ones. They look different. Mickelson leans a certain way on putts and the short game that reveals he's left-handed. He wouldn't lean that way (even if it were the opposite way) if her were right-handed; that's my theory, and I'm sticking to it.

From my strictly amateur observations, cats appear to be ambidextrous--part of that fearful symmetry, I reckon, that Blake noticed.

Ambidextrous Cats

The ambidexterity of cats is a pleasure to watch,
like spats on feet of fabulous tap-dancers. Cats
have an answer for any motion they see. Sometimes
the response is just alert stasis. Other times, the
chase is on. Often two or more feet, claws unsheathed,
are involved effectively, symmetrically. The tail
gets bushy--"fat," we say. And hey, the whiskers
twitch. With precision, cats seize the which
that moved into view, using two paws equally.



Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Lyric Craving

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Lyric Craving


Sometimes I crave a lyric poem
That springs like a clear creek,
A regulated rush of words
To zap a weary week.

A yellow butterfly in air,
A jet-trail frozen high:
Such images are welcome, too.
They fill the lyric eye.

In Housman and in Dickinson;
In Langston; Auden, too.
There's often something sharp and quick.
The words are right and few.

I'll go read these, and others, too:
The Spare Ones, let us say.
I'll sip the water from the creek
And slake the thirst today.

Copryight 2009 Hans Ostrom

The Sign of the Horse

A reader of the blog (the blog has readers? who knew?) sent a link to a Chinese astrological site. As far as I know, I am aligned under the sign of the Horse, about which the site has this to say:

'Popular literature in the West speaks of “men being from Mars and women being from Venus.” Well, in Chinese astrology, the Horse is associated with male and its complementary sign, the Sheep, with female characteristics. Independence is the “male” characteristic epitomized by the Horse. Anyone who loves cowboy movies knows the first thing a cowboy does upon riding into town is to tie up his Horse. You are most likely adventurous, fun loving and enjoy the outdoors as well as a variety of sports. It’s no chore to get you to go to the fitness center to work out, but you truly enjoy the combination of working out and being outdoors---hiking, jogging, biking, rock wall climbing.

You can be a human dynamo. Furthermore, you can stay in an action mode a lot longer than the rest of us. Others probably see you as a vivacious person due to your high energy level. It’s not only your vitality that catches our attention and wins our respect. You’re quick in both mind and body, and cut a dapper, colorful figure as you rush in and out of our lives. In general you have to have things your way---now. Occasionally impatient and rash, you tend to engage in impulsive behavior more than the rest of us. In truth stability is not your strong suit. You are fickle, especially when it comes to fashions."'

I'm not much for "outdoor sports" anymore, although I do like to get out and about, and fly-fishing is just the best. As for being a human dynamo, I must confess that when I'm focused on a project or two, I tend to be unrelenting, one might say obsessive. I'm not sure this is a good quality, but it does help with getting things done.

I love the line about about a cowboy tying up his horse. The analogy is just left there, for us to ponder.

I have been known to be impulsive and rash.

Of course, many people who know me would focus on a particular portion of the horse's anatomy to describe me.

My mother was casually but intensely interested in astrology, so much so that when I called her to tell her our son, her grandson, had been born, her first response was, "Thank God--he's a Libra." He was "on the cusp" of another sign that, for whatever reason, my mother didn't like. I'm an Aquarian, by the way. "Harmony and understanding . . .".

A great aunt of mine was seriously into astrology--she did the charts and the whole bit. She also did NOT offer advice or work up charts for anyone unless they asked and seemed serious. That is, she was rather the opposite of a huckster. She took the subject very seriously, but it was more or less a private pursuit for her. I visited her once, accompanied by a woman I was sure (that day) I was going to be with for a long, long time, and my great aunt, gently, suggested otherwise, based on a brief reading of my chart. Of course, the odds that any relationship will break up are pretty high, so, in addition to astrology, she also had Vegas odds going for her.

I tend to be sanguine about almost all systems of belief, as long as they're not obviously shuck-and-jive affairs and dedicated to ripping people off. After all, the more "science" discovers about quantum particles, for example, the less "knowable" the universe becomes and the more like mystics physicists seem, so we'd best be careful about going all Enlightenment on everybody.

Privilege

Privilege #238B.1


To wake up at 3:21 a.m. in a warm,
clean bed in a heated, electrified
house, go to an equipped kitchen,
eat a banana, drink clean water, listen
to a neighborhood's silence, return
to bed, read a book by good light,
open a notebook and scribble, turn
off the light, and go back to sleep.



Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Post 666: Hmmmm

According to the blog-machinery, this is post 666 on my Poet's Musings blog. You couldn't prove it by me, as I've not been counting.

When they still scored the Law School Admissions Test on an 800 scale, I received a 666. Many reasons went into my deciding not to go to law school, but this was among them. I thought someone was trying to send me a message. I told a class this today--and added that, unfortunately, because I took "this" road and not "that" road, I'm their professor.

Except for 666, I'm extremely uninformed about things related to numerology, etc. I have, however, always rather liked the number 4. And I wrote a series of poems on number 1 through 10. I think 4 and 10 produced the best poems.

This 666-business is sure popular in Hollywood horror movies.

Allllllrighteeeeeee, then, as Jim Carey likes to say: this has been post 666.

The Original Salesman

The Original Salesman

Maybe the first salesman went from
cave to cave, peddling pebbles, bones,
and moss, telling stories as he heard
them all along the way. No one bought
anything, as he was way ahead of his
concept. At least he got to see

the world, barter his way to mobility,
hunt approval, gather lies, trade
a carved femur for burnt meat
and a bowl of water. Good news:

no quotas, no district manager, not
even a company. No fake warranties,
handling fees, or special offers. Just
a person who liked to keep moving
and loved the look on people's faces
when he opened up his bag
of electic stuff. Bad news: disease
and weariness. --And people

do establish their territories, lingo,
kinship-networks, customs,
terrors, beliefs, and hate. That's
when you really need to sell it,
man--to convince them how harmless
you are, how very sensible it is for
them not to kill you. That's
a pitch that needs to work.

Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Thirteen Ways

(image: Wallace Stevens)

We're going to discuss Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" today in the poetry-writing class. Then we'll do some writing based on prompts springing from the poem--and from other poems that express multiple perspectives.

Arguably, the poem is Stevens at his best: philosophical but whimsical, very playful with language, and pleasantly self-conscious about imagination and imagining. The poem is indelible.

For some reason, I don't like his use of Roman numerals to number the sections. They seem too heavy for the poem--maybe that's it.

If forced to pick a favorite way, I'd probably go with XII:

The river is moving.

The blackbird must be flying.

Here we have quintessential "poetic 'logic,'" and also the kind of primitive logic that sometimes operates when one is in or around nature. The lines provide the kind of "leap" that Robert Bly treasures and that he claims isn't in American poetry to a sufficient degree. I also appreciate how comparatively flat the phrasing is--in comparison to that of other sections, where the lingo is lush.

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Sometimes readers new and not so new to the poem get frustrated by some of the sections, which seem too cryptic to them. The poem is really a bit of linguistic jazz, so listening to it as jazz and not worrying about decoding every "note" comprise one way around the frustration.

My friend, co-writer, and co-editor, the late Wendy Bishop, wrote a superb creative-writing textbook that takes its name from Stevens' poem: Thirteen Ways of Looking For a Poem. It's full of good poetry, great discussions of writing poetry, and superb specific prompts for poems. Published by Longman. And Wendy's own collected book of poems is My Last Door.

And here's hoping the week goes well for you in at least thirteen ways.

Going Through Customs

The Current Customs

At the airport in Vancouver, B.C., the border's
inside the terminal, which is many miles and
kilometers from the border, so the border
in the airport's even more arbitrary, let us
say imaginary, than the "real" one. You

round a corner that's under reconstruction,
and at some point, the linoleum becomes
"U.S.A" not "Canada." You have to take off
your shoes, declare you're not a farm-animal,
surrender anything sharp or metal, expose
your collection of sad toiletries (including bad
aftershave that was on sale), and allow
the underwear in your luggage to be X-ray-ed
to see if it has pulmonary problems.

Finally you approach a glass-enclosed booth
and show your passport. The customs-agent
either sells you a movie-ticket, tells you your
passport belong to Franz Kafka and arrests
you, or lets you back into the nation where
you pay taxes--even though you already
passed a sign that said, "Welcome to the
United States of America." Our customs get

more labyrinthine every year, and does
anyone besides the Germans stamp
passports anymore with that authoritative
whack of ink? Anyway, having passed
the point of demarcation, you buy coffee
from an outpost of a multinational
corporation using a tossed salad of
two currencies. A recent immigrant serves

you. His daughter will become
an entrepreneur, a civil rights attorney,
or a diplomat in Canada, the U.S., or
a country-to-be-named-later. You
have passed through customs.

Sixty Bees of Separation

Sixty Bees of Separation


The man misheard me and believed
I'd said "sixty bees of separation"
instead of "six degrees . . ." and he
wanted to know "what the hell"
I was talking about--what did I
mean by sixty bees of separation?

I went with a mondegreenish
improvisation and said that
according to a South American
legend, sixty bees once got
separated from a magical hive
in the Amazon Basin. Ever since
then, the bees have been
circling the globe, searching
in vain for their indigenous nest.

I said according to the myth,
if all sixty bees locate the hive
and end the separation,
the waters of the Amazon
will turn to honey. "Oh,"
said the man, "it's just some
legend, then." "Yes," I said.
"It is the Legend of the Sixty
Bees of Separation."


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Scuffling With A Poem

A Poetry Scuffle


The poem asserted snow "is like
an invasion of feathers," and I said,
"Snow isn't anything of the sort. What
a ridiculous comparison." Then the poem
and I really got into it. It threw
an overhand quatrain and caught
the side of my head. I kneed it
in the last line. We ended up
on the floor, gouging and choking.


Our friends finally broke it up.
One of them told me, "You're
not supposed to beat up your
own poetry. That's what critics
are for." "He started it!" I lied.
"You're an adult poet," said my
friend. "Act like one. So what if
there is a dumb simile in the poem.
Ever heard of 'revision'?"


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

The Day's Amusements

At my local cafe, I almost always get an old-school beverage--espresso macchiato, two shots. Of course, my parents' generation regarded a CUP OF COFFEE as an old-school drink, which they never called a beverage. At any rate, today I ordered a steamed soy-milk with sugar-free vanilla flavor. The barista looked at me with grave disappointment and said, "And we thought we knew you."

So then, partly because it's tax-season, one with whom I live and I started talking finances. I had just learned that for one of our credit-cards, there are two accounts but one balance. I still don't understand how that works, and being confused, I started expressing my outrage at the world of finance. My conversational partner shook her head as if to say, "I know you too well," and she said the financial terminology I was using was completely wrong. I said, "And you know what's funnier than that?--I'm on a budget-committee where I work!" She tried to let me down easy by saying, "You're conceptually very strong. It's just that your terminology is awful." Well, kind of easy.

It's almost April, and it's almost snowing again in Tacoma. This is pretty much Unheard Of. It's as if the Weather God is saying, "Let's see, should I start Spring?. . . Nah." "Computer says nah," as Stephen Wright says. At least I think it's Stephen Wright.

Then there's this guy in L.A. with whom I'm working on a project, and he emails me via his phone from his boat out on the sunny Pacific. I understand how the technology works, but I'm still amazed by it, and I still want phones to weigh 50-60 pounds. I'm trying to tamp down my envy about the whole boat, sunshine, I-phone situation down there as I sit and watch snow-flakes attempt to form.

And I learned from a blogger that country/folk (and blues/gospel influenced) singer Kate Campbell sometimes reads my Emily/Elvis poem at concerts. How cool is that? She has some great subtle, surprising songs about Elvis. She's a terrific lyricist.

This isn't being sent from my I-phone as I lie on a boat in sunshine on the Pacific.

International Rhododendrons

Rhododendrons were something of a revelation to me when I moved to the Pacific Northwest. Unassuming but noble most of the year, rhododendrons blossom extravagantly in Spring.

Soon we inhabited some homes with yards that included venerable "rhodies," and I became even more intrigued by them. Many gardeners give rhodies a great deal of attention, going so far as to pluck off the dried blossoms in late Spring/early Summer. I never did that, partly out of respect for the rhodies, which seemed quite self-sufficient to me. They do grow like mad, so sometimes pruning is called for. And they like some acidic fertilizer every now and then. --And water if the weather gets real hot. Otherwise, they just flourish: part of their charm, as far as I'm concerned. They provide some nice balance to roses, which require constant care, it seems.


Rhododendrons Without A Country


Rhododendrons in Canada and the U.S.
may be aware of a lot, but they don't know
they're Canadian or American. They're
even undecided about whether to be trees
or shrubs. Unsurprisingly, then, they bloom
cautiously. Vivid swatches of color peek
through grenade-size buds and give Spring
a good hard look to see if it's serious or
a double-agent working for Winter.

Rhododendrons never carry a passport
or negotiate treaties. They're model
citizens of forests, parks, and gardens.
Their leaves are leathery, seem wise.
Rhododendrons conduct business with
sun, soil, and rain. They exhibit a
cosmopolitan poise that rises
above petty nationalism.

Copyright 2009

Herrick's Poem, Reader's Face, Let's Party

(image: Likeness of Robert Herrick [1591-1674])

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To the Sour Reader

by Robert Herrick

If thou dislik'st the piece thou light'st on first,

Think that of all that I have writ the worst;

But if though read'st my book unto the end,

And still dost this and that verse reprehend,

O perverse man! If all disgustful be,

The extreme scab take thee and thine, for me.

Well, then! Here is poetry as a bit of a contact-sport. Instead of invoking the muses, Herrick invokes the reader, and, as I interpret the poem, he gives the reader two options: 1) If you don't like the first poem you read in my book, then simply assume that that poem is the worst poem in the book and move on from there (to what will, by definition, be better poetry). 2) If you don't like any of the poems, then you are perverse, and I curse you; specifically, may an extreme scab afflict you and those whom you know.

A poet and poem with attitude: not bad. Also a poet who probably wore a wig, judging by the image above. He looks like he could have played in a 1980s rock-band. Or maybe 1970s: He looks just a bit like Tony Orlando from "Tony Orlando and Dawn."

The use of "reprehend" is nice. We're used to "reprehensible." I don't hear or read "reprehend" much if at all anymore, though.

"Scab," I assume, in this case refers more to a disease than a single scab (crusted-over wound), per se. Here is an example from the OED online that may obtain (from anotheer poet, George Herbert, although not from a poem):

G. Herbert Jacula Prudentum 1137 The itch of disputing is the scab of the Church [transl. of the saying Disputandi prurigo est ecclesiæ scabies].

"Scab" also, of course, has come to refer to a worker who takes the job of a union-worker on strike. I haven't looked into the origins of that figurative use yet, but I probably will.

In the meantime, here's to Robert Herrick and his aggressive opening gambit toward is audience, even though the audience could have simply closed the book in outrage--and hoped the curse would not come to pass.

In a preface or foreword to one of his poetry-books, William Stafford was somewhat more subtle. If memory serves he wrote, "And to my critics: thanks, anyway." Lovely.