Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Great American Poet Lottery
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The Great American Poet Lottery
Everybody--okay, about 12 people--
is upset about the state of American poetry.
There was even something about it
on the Puffington Host. What a thing
to get upset about!
None of the upsettees has read a fraction
of what's being written, so they can't really
know the state of American poetry. No one
can read more than a fraction. Spooky, I know.
They're just upset about the poetry they
have read, I guess, and they're entitled.
But they may have missed (wait for it)
the Paradigm Shift. Poetry everywhere lives
in the electronic clouds now, its relationship
to nations and literary management tenuous.
It also refuses to stop propagating, and
that bugs the shit out of some people. Less
is more. Economy of false scarcity.
The upsettees miss the old days. (Randall
Jarrell once wrote that in the Golden Age,
people probably went around complaining
about how yellow everything was.) I don't
agree with the upsettees, but I sympathize.
I'm a sympathizer. They miss those certain days
when anthologies and certain critics and
certain presses told us all who was great.
Anyway, I have a solution. The Great American
Poet Lottery. You enter it by sending in
a poem of yours, see. Drawings held--what?--
weekly? If your poem's picked, you become
a Great American Poet, lounging with Walt,
snoring with Tse Tse, giggling at Emily's
wicked jokes, laughing with Langston.
Okay, sure, a small cash-prize, paid in
Swedish kronor, don't ask me why. If you
become a Great American Poet, you get to
show up drunk and late to every reading
you give and have people still love you.
You're automatically in the running
to become Poet Lariat. (I kind of like
that joke.) You win, and the ones worried
about the state of American poetry win
because they'll have one more reason
to worry about the state of American poetry.
American poetry wins by retaining its
sense of absurdity, its crassness,
and its careening barbaric yawp. And nobody
gets hurt--something that is worth worrying about.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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*
The Great American Poet Lottery
Everybody--okay, about 12 people--
is upset about the state of American poetry.
There was even something about it
on the Puffington Host. What a thing
to get upset about!
None of the upsettees has read a fraction
of what's being written, so they can't really
know the state of American poetry. No one
can read more than a fraction. Spooky, I know.
They're just upset about the poetry they
have read, I guess, and they're entitled.
But they may have missed (wait for it)
the Paradigm Shift. Poetry everywhere lives
in the electronic clouds now, its relationship
to nations and literary management tenuous.
It also refuses to stop propagating, and
that bugs the shit out of some people. Less
is more. Economy of false scarcity.
The upsettees miss the old days. (Randall
Jarrell once wrote that in the Golden Age,
people probably went around complaining
about how yellow everything was.) I don't
agree with the upsettees, but I sympathize.
I'm a sympathizer. They miss those certain days
when anthologies and certain critics and
certain presses told us all who was great.
Anyway, I have a solution. The Great American
Poet Lottery. You enter it by sending in
a poem of yours, see. Drawings held--what?--
weekly? If your poem's picked, you become
a Great American Poet, lounging with Walt,
snoring with Tse Tse, giggling at Emily's
wicked jokes, laughing with Langston.
Okay, sure, a small cash-prize, paid in
Swedish kronor, don't ask me why. If you
become a Great American Poet, you get to
show up drunk and late to every reading
you give and have people still love you.
You're automatically in the running
to become Poet Lariat. (I kind of like
that joke.) You win, and the ones worried
about the state of American poetry win
because they'll have one more reason
to worry about the state of American poetry.
American poetry wins by retaining its
sense of absurdity, its crassness,
and its careening barbaric yawp. And nobody
gets hurt--something that is worth worrying about.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
The Work of the Writer
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The Work of the Writer
I'm a writer.
My job's to fill up notebooks.
I usually work the swing-shift.
The words are kept
in wheeled bins, which I roll
over to my station.
I unload the bins,
put the words on the conveyor
belt, which then rides the words
into the notebooks. On my breaks,
I go outside, nibble sandwich
corners, smoke cigarettes,
bullshit with the other writers
at the plant.
The shift-manager comes to fetch us,
the rat-bastard. --Back to work
until the horn goes off.
After that, we hit the taverns,
sit with vacant visages ("visages":
I saw that word on the belt today).
We try not to speak unless we have to:
You know how it is--you want to forget
work. A carpenter doesn't go to a tavern
looking to build anything. Once
I was walking home, and I saw the Muse.
She owns the plant. She's absolutely
gorgeous. I asked her for a kiss.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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*
*
The Work of the Writer
I'm a writer.
My job's to fill up notebooks.
I usually work the swing-shift.
The words are kept
in wheeled bins, which I roll
over to my station.
I unload the bins,
put the words on the conveyor
belt, which then rides the words
into the notebooks. On my breaks,
I go outside, nibble sandwich
corners, smoke cigarettes,
bullshit with the other writers
at the plant.
The shift-manager comes to fetch us,
the rat-bastard. --Back to work
until the horn goes off.
After that, we hit the taverns,
sit with vacant visages ("visages":
I saw that word on the belt today).
We try not to speak unless we have to:
You know how it is--you want to forget
work. A carpenter doesn't go to a tavern
looking to build anything. Once
I was walking home, and I saw the Muse.
She owns the plant. She's absolutely
gorgeous. I asked her for a kiss.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Show That Man Some Respect
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Show That Man Some Respect
for C.M. in N.C
You need to show that man some respect.
Otherwise, you can expect some
resistance. For instance, listen
well before you disagree, for if you
do, you may well see he's right,
as he's been known to be.
He's very smart and very wise:
there is a difference. Look
at his eyes. Read what he's written.
He keeps things in, and he may not
tell you you've been rude.
So I thought I'd let you know--
for your sake, mine, and his, that is.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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*
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Show That Man Some Respect
for C.M. in N.C
You need to show that man some respect.
Otherwise, you can expect some
resistance. For instance, listen
well before you disagree, for if you
do, you may well see he's right,
as he's been known to be.
He's very smart and very wise:
there is a difference. Look
at his eyes. Read what he's written.
He keeps things in, and he may not
tell you you've been rude.
So I thought I'd let you know--
for your sake, mine, and his, that is.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
New Dance Craze
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Do the Paradigm Shift!
You put your hands in the air.
You put both feet out. You
fall through space, and
you try to shout--
oh, yeah--can you feel the lift?
Now you're doing the Paradigm Shift!
Oh yeah, do the Paradigm Shift.
Uh-huh, do the Paradigm Shift.
It's the latest craze, and it's
a dubious gift!
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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*
*
*
Do the Paradigm Shift!
You put your hands in the air.
You put both feet out. You
fall through space, and
you try to shout--
oh, yeah--can you feel the lift?
Now you're doing the Paradigm Shift!
Oh yeah, do the Paradigm Shift.
Uh-huh, do the Paradigm Shift.
It's the latest craze, and it's
a dubious gift!
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Menu
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Menu
The special today is sunshine soup
topped with a dollop of cloud. It
is accompanied in a minor key
by roasted regrets in a reduction
sauce. A choir of angels may visit
your table, coming after you,
coming for to carry you home.
A gratuity is expected after their song.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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*
*
Menu
The special today is sunshine soup
topped with a dollop of cloud. It
is accompanied in a minor key
by roasted regrets in a reduction
sauce. A choir of angels may visit
your table, coming after you,
coming for to carry you home.
A gratuity is expected after their song.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
We're The Ghosts
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We're the Ghosts
We're the ghosts,
who seem to ourselves
and each other to be alive,
substantial, here, important.
Look closely. Wherever you are
now, imagine how quickly every
body there will vanish, be
in effect replaced, how fast
the place itself will alter,
how other people feeling real
will inhabit the space and not
know they don't know a thing
about you and me and us.
And not know how soon they'll go,
ghosts.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
We're the Ghosts
We're the ghosts,
who seem to ourselves
and each other to be alive,
substantial, here, important.
Look closely. Wherever you are
now, imagine how quickly every
body there will vanish, be
in effect replaced, how fast
the place itself will alter,
how other people feeling real
will inhabit the space and not
know they don't know a thing
about you and me and us.
And not know how soon they'll go,
ghosts.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Freight Train
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Freight Train
They say a freight train lets out that blast
to warn those near the tracks to get away
as it rolls heavy through a city.
I say it's a beckoning to hobos in our souls
who tell us we have done about all we're
going to do--not much and not what
anybody wanted anyhow. So why not go,
why not grab steel, ride the freighting
beast down the coast to the last boast
you'll ever make before you shake
oblivion's hand and go back to being
particles commonly found in the universe?
A train's wail is a tune from that
incalcuable space. A train's machine-cry
makes you want to chase the train,
a chain of iron cars, a creature born
of burned out stars. Your life says,
"That train is just blind freight--
stay here, under covers, go to sleep."
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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*
*
*
Freight Train
They say a freight train lets out that blast
to warn those near the tracks to get away
as it rolls heavy through a city.
I say it's a beckoning to hobos in our souls
who tell us we have done about all we're
going to do--not much and not what
anybody wanted anyhow. So why not go,
why not grab steel, ride the freighting
beast down the coast to the last boast
you'll ever make before you shake
oblivion's hand and go back to being
particles commonly found in the universe?
A train's wail is a tune from that
incalcuable space. A train's machine-cry
makes you want to chase the train,
a chain of iron cars, a creature born
of burned out stars. Your life says,
"That train is just blind freight--
stay here, under covers, go to sleep."
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
A Lovely Woman's Nose
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ling to portrait
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A Lovely Woman's Nose
There are many things to say
about a lovely woman's nose,
which always points in the correct
direction and holds its place
amongst the beauty of the face.
We shall not say these many things
today but shall hold them in our
minds just beyond these words--
covert but close by. They will be
like the shapes, angles, and shades
that serve as defining context of
the lovely woman's nose--yes,
the lovely woman's nose: consider it.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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ling to portrait
*
*
*
A Lovely Woman's Nose
There are many things to say
about a lovely woman's nose,
which always points in the correct
direction and holds its place
amongst the beauty of the face.
We shall not say these many things
today but shall hold them in our
minds just beyond these words--
covert but close by. They will be
like the shapes, angles, and shades
that serve as defining context of
the lovely woman's nose--yes,
the lovely woman's nose: consider it.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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