Fashion Models

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Fashion Models


The vacancy in eyes is neither feline
nor fishy. It's royal. Crowned by current
fashion with approved beauty, models
walk or stand ritually while gazes and lenses
pledge fealty. This slenderness

is a cousin of gaunt. Is the frame bones
haunted by flesh or vice versa? A fashion
model's an illusion, an unreal estate, an
expensive trick played on eyes, desire,
and retail markets. One need only focus

on an ear or an elbow, though,
and the game is up. The model is
human, the fashion is woven fibers
or tanned hide, and the pageant
is but a bright pretty bore.


Copyright 2010  Hans Ostrom

An Interview About Ogden Nash

Here's a link to a 2005 interview between Ben Wattenberg (Public Broadcasting Service, USA) and Douglas Parker concerning Parker's biography of Ogden Nash, master of humorous light verse, and writer of fiction.

Ogden Nash: The Life and Work of America's Laureate of Light Verse by Douglas M. Parker

The Best of Ogden Nash

Ogden Nash's Zoo

Illinois' Poet Laureate

Kevin Stein is Illinois' Poet Laureate, and he teaches at Bradley University.  Here is a link to his site.

One of his books: Sufficiency of the Actual (Illinois Poetry Series).

a cummings poem

It seems like a good day to post a poem by e.e. cummings, one that appears elsewhere online:

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Peter Viereck

On another blog, I just posted something about Peter Viereck (1916-2006), poet and historian.

Viereck's books include  New and Selected Poems, 1932-1967   and  Door.

Arkansas' Poet Laureate

Peggy Vining is Arkansas' Poet Laureate.

Louisiana's Poet Laureate

Louisiana's current Poet Laureate is Darrell Bourque. His books include  Plainsongs, The Blue Boat, Burnt Water Suite (nice title), and Call and Response.

West Virginia's Poet Laureate

West Virginia's Poet Laureate is Irene McKinney. 

Her books include Unthinkable: Selected Poems 1976-2004 and Six O'Clock Mine Report.  She also edited a collection of West Virginian writing, Back Country.

Colorado's Poet Laureate

Mary Crow is Colorado's Poet Laureate, and here is a link to her site.

And here is a link to one of her books:

I Have Tasted the Apple (American Poets Continuum)

Derbyshire's Poet Laureate

Here is a link to the site of Ann Atkinson, Poet Laureate of Derbyshire.

Good Weather Inside

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Good Weather Inside

I'm fond of interior fogs, thick mists
in which to disappear when the world
gets especially giddy, unambiguous,
and annoying.  Invisible geese mutter
to themselves. A creek is to be heard
but not seen. The sun ceases to be
a celebrity.  As Auden wrote, "Thank
you, fog."  At other times, the good
weather inside invites.  When muck
and slush of human interaction dispirits,
a walk in the mind's bright meadow beckons.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Thank You, Fog: Last Poems.

Venues

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Venues


My residences are three--
the present, past, and me.
The past is vast, illusory.
Present's cramped, a tiny pill,
so its contents spill
into past. Still
there's Me, which is a what
that's a where and a who,
not so different from a You.



Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Hey, Baby

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Hiram and His Hey-Baby Poem


"Hey, Baby, here's another Hey-Baby poem,
full of neon bats and radioactive butterflies,
false promises and outlandish proposals,
a Magical Realist's dream-yacht,
Dylan Thomas's unpaid bar bill, too
much cheese and not enough wine. In this
Hey-Baby poem, you get compared.

Yeah, Baby, you get compared to such
extravagant particulars that the poem
claims you'll sweat liquid marble and gargle
with nectar. Undeterred by the overpopulation
of Hey-Baby poems, this one wants to be known
as an elder adolescent and a crusty old
lust-addict both at once. Asleep on a stained

couch, this poem dreams it's Casanova on a Harley,
Byron on a skateboard, Christina Rossetti's
market-analyst, and an Arabian nighthawk riding
a golden pogo-stick. Hey, Baby, my heart's not in
this Hey-Baby poem. It's because I always thought
the genre was horse-shit and the women who fell
for it more to be pitied than played. Hey, Baby,

as you well know, you can do better than this
Hey-Baby poem or any other, so take this anti-
Hey-Baby poem, use it as a coupon, and redeem
it for the platinum version of your crap-detector,
just in case something or someone subtle
slides your way with a Hey-Baby poem in disguise."
Thus spake Hiram to his laptop in a glad cafe.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom