Saturday, September 11, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Four Women
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*
*
*
*
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Four Women
The young barista applies
eye-makeup with great care
each morning, early, before
the first coffee-drinker awakes.
The older cashier at the food store
has dyed her hair a bright blond.
She takes her cigarette-breaks
outside the cafe. She once said,
"It comes back around, you know,
if you're kind--it comes back
around to you."
From behind the machine,
the barista now watches the older
cashier. The realtor wears
nylons and high heels all day.
She must never appear to be
impatient or weary. There must
never be the smallest flaw
in her clothing. Her eyes
and mouth have hardened.
The blond cashier, smoking,
watches her get into
an expensive car, which
is red and freshly polished.
The high school student
with brown hair that was dyed
black but is now splashed
with green walks past the red
car talking to her phone. Her
clothes don't fit, aren't
meant to, and sunlight shines
on the small of her back
and the dimpled top of the crack
between her buttocks. The realtor
and the blond cashier notice
all of this in one glance.
The cigarette's snuffed out,
the red car's engine starts,
the barista's already preparing
a beverage for the talking girl--
something with a lot of sugar
and cream and chocolate and
caffeine--and the talking girl,
who is a woman, now notices,
maybe for the first time,
the subtlety of the barista's
eye-shade, and with one hand
now tries to pull up the tight,
low-waisted jeans, which slip
back down, and the barista, letting
some steam out of the machine,
says, "Here you go!"
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
*
*
Four Women
The young barista applies
eye-makeup with great care
each morning, early, before
the first coffee-drinker awakes.
The older cashier at the food store
has dyed her hair a bright blond.
She takes her cigarette-breaks
outside the cafe. She once said,
"It comes back around, you know,
if you're kind--it comes back
around to you."
From behind the machine,
the barista now watches the older
cashier. The realtor wears
nylons and high heels all day.
She must never appear to be
impatient or weary. There must
never be the smallest flaw
in her clothing. Her eyes
and mouth have hardened.
The blond cashier, smoking,
watches her get into
an expensive car, which
is red and freshly polished.
The high school student
with brown hair that was dyed
black but is now splashed
with green walks past the red
car talking to her phone. Her
clothes don't fit, aren't
meant to, and sunlight shines
on the small of her back
and the dimpled top of the crack
between her buttocks. The realtor
and the blond cashier notice
all of this in one glance.
The cigarette's snuffed out,
the red car's engine starts,
the barista's already preparing
a beverage for the talking girl--
something with a lot of sugar
and cream and chocolate and
caffeine--and the talking girl,
who is a woman, now notices,
maybe for the first time,
the subtlety of the barista's
eye-shade, and with one hand
now tries to pull up the tight,
low-waisted jeans, which slip
back down, and the barista, letting
some steam out of the machine,
says, "Here you go!"
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
More Advice to Poets from Tom O'Bedlam
Here is more advice to poets from Tom O'Bedlam of the Spoken Verse Youtube Channel; this time it's phrased as advice--or "stiff criticism"--to one poet but meant, of course, for poets in general:
"Your main problem is that nobody is going to read your stuff. A poem has about five seconds to arrest the reader, to provide motivation to read the remainder. I read scores of poems almost every day. You wouldn't have stopped me from quitting after the first few lines.
Be intelligible and/or arresting, amusing and/or diverting. There's no point in being abstruse. The reader says - to hell with this, it's gibberish. Provide something that piques curiosity, that makes them read on.
According to Ezra Pound, poetry consists of logopoeia, phanopoeia and melopoeia. You have to learn the trade, read everything that went before. The hallmark of genius is technical innovation - but you have to know what's been done to death before you can depart from it. If you write what you think looks like poetry then you stole it. Many people can sing like Al Jolson.
To start with you should learn to write in clear definitive sentences with some respect to spelling, grammar and syntax. (Okay I have occasional blind spots, but they're usually typos. I can spell most words in the language most days, I just have odd lapses of memory sometimes) You can take liberties once you're proved you know what you're doing. Look at the early work of Picasso for instance. He showed the world be could paint before bringing out the crazy stuff from the back of the closet. You'll gain neither respect nor readership if you appear illiterate. If you can't be bothered to learnt to write properly, then why should you expect people to forgive you? You're up against thousands of writers manquees, prepared to put in all that it takes in sweat-equity.
It's no use offer an explanation or an apology or whatever - nobody will read that either. The poet has only one language and the poem must be self-contained. Either give up or try a lot harder.
That's stiff criticism but it might put you on the right path. "
"It shows an excellence of character that you take it so well. Most of the stuff I'm asked to comment on isn't worth reading - but, then, most published poetry isn't worth reading. Once a poet has gained status then we have to accept whatever he or she turns out. I've read rubbish written by laureates."
"Your main problem is that nobody is going to read your stuff. A poem has about five seconds to arrest the reader, to provide motivation to read the remainder. I read scores of poems almost every day. You wouldn't have stopped me from quitting after the first few lines.
Be intelligible and/or arresting, amusing and/or diverting. There's no point in being abstruse. The reader says - to hell with this, it's gibberish. Provide something that piques curiosity, that makes them read on.
According to Ezra Pound, poetry consists of logopoeia, phanopoeia and melopoeia. You have to learn the trade, read everything that went before. The hallmark of genius is technical innovation - but you have to know what's been done to death before you can depart from it. If you write what you think looks like poetry then you stole it. Many people can sing like Al Jolson.
To start with you should learn to write in clear definitive sentences with some respect to spelling, grammar and syntax. (Okay I have occasional blind spots, but they're usually typos. I can spell most words in the language most days, I just have odd lapses of memory sometimes) You can take liberties once you're proved you know what you're doing. Look at the early work of Picasso for instance. He showed the world be could paint before bringing out the crazy stuff from the back of the closet. You'll gain neither respect nor readership if you appear illiterate. If you can't be bothered to learnt to write properly, then why should you expect people to forgive you? You're up against thousands of writers manquees, prepared to put in all that it takes in sweat-equity.
It's no use offer an explanation or an apology or whatever - nobody will read that either. The poet has only one language and the poem must be self-contained. Either give up or try a lot harder.
That's stiff criticism but it might put you on the right path. "
"It shows an excellence of character that you take it so well. Most of the stuff I'm asked to comment on isn't worth reading - but, then, most published poetry isn't worth reading. Once a poet has gained status then we have to accept whatever he or she turns out. I've read rubbish written by laureates."
Monday, September 6, 2010
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