Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Yoga Poem #2
Yoga Poem #2
Downward dog indeed.
Make the arse the apex,
dig in your toes, and put
that nose near the ground.
Hey, sniff your way to namaste.
Don't look at your neighbor's
ass. You're not traveling
in a pack. In down-dog,
your body and the Earth
make a triangle pointing
toward the sky
and Orion's dog
eternally faithful.
Butt in the air,
you are undignified
and proud both
at once. Your shoulders
ache. They're holding
up your lower floors,
something they're
not used to.
You wish to lie
down like a tired
hound.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Downward dog indeed.
Make the arse the apex,
dig in your toes, and put
that nose near the ground.
Hey, sniff your way to namaste.
Don't look at your neighbor's
ass. You're not traveling
in a pack. In down-dog,
your body and the Earth
make a triangle pointing
toward the sky
and Orion's dog
eternally faithful.
Butt in the air,
you are undignified
and proud both
at once. Your shoulders
ache. They're holding
up your lower floors,
something they're
not used to.
You wish to lie
down like a tired
hound.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Yoga Poem #1
Yoga Poem #1
Before yoga, you
are overwrought.
During yoga you
are wrought--
like iron as it's
pounded on by
a blacksmith . . .
without a hammer.
After yoga, you
are overwrought:
there's a lovely
formlessness to your
to your thinking
as thoughts pass
through, pass by.
Even if it's a
gray day, even if
it's night, you notice
light.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Before yoga, you
are overwrought.
During yoga you
are wrought--
like iron as it's
pounded on by
a blacksmith . . .
without a hammer.
After yoga, you
are overwrought:
there's a lovely
formlessness to your
to your thinking
as thoughts pass
through, pass by.
Even if it's a
gray day, even if
it's night, you notice
light.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Samuel Johnson and Gertrude Stein in Heaven
Samuel Johnson and Gertrude Stein in Heaven
Lapidarian stylists, hard prose. Ugly people--at least
according to those who make the rules, which Sam
and Gert upheld devoutly or smashed like Vikings,
depending on the whims of their intelligence. Smarter
than the rest, they were, and than the best, around
whom they lived. They were both puritanical
Epicureans. They had a powerful desire to be
chaste, which showed up in prayers and prose
but not so much in life, which is an exuberant affair.
Sam had Hetty and Boswell and a cobbled
entourage. Gert had Alice and Paris and lots
of names to drop. Each was a bit of a hick,
a tourist, a clod--the chief effect of which
was to compress their anxieties and sharpen
mental blades Gert was from Oakland, which
she tried to erase by saying that it didn't have
a there. Sam was from Lichfield and had
bad shoes, nervous ticks, and a marred face.
Gert had the nose of a battleship. Lord Almighty,
no wonder they're glad to be paired in Heaven,
where they read each other's writings and get
all the uncanny connections.
Each of them devoured the Age. Each was
interested in writing lives in the process of
composing their own. Both could be cruel,
but not for long. Neither grasped Empire or
other larger structures. They operated in
small spaces, like boxers. They never got
over their crushes on London and Paris.
Hard prose easily understood. What's not
to understand? they ask each other in
Heaven, dining and drinking extravagantly.
Prose is there to preserve surges of intellect.
They get to missing Alice and Boswell, so
here they go, searching, walking together--
oh my, what a sight. Peering around a
corner, very short Picasso sketches them
and yearns to cry out that he is a genius, too.
But God's put Pablo on probation.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Lapidarian stylists, hard prose. Ugly people--at least
according to those who make the rules, which Sam
and Gert upheld devoutly or smashed like Vikings,
depending on the whims of their intelligence. Smarter
than the rest, they were, and than the best, around
whom they lived. They were both puritanical
Epicureans. They had a powerful desire to be
chaste, which showed up in prayers and prose
but not so much in life, which is an exuberant affair.
Sam had Hetty and Boswell and a cobbled
entourage. Gert had Alice and Paris and lots
of names to drop. Each was a bit of a hick,
a tourist, a clod--the chief effect of which
was to compress their anxieties and sharpen
mental blades Gert was from Oakland, which
she tried to erase by saying that it didn't have
a there. Sam was from Lichfield and had
bad shoes, nervous ticks, and a marred face.
Gert had the nose of a battleship. Lord Almighty,
no wonder they're glad to be paired in Heaven,
where they read each other's writings and get
all the uncanny connections.
Each of them devoured the Age. Each was
interested in writing lives in the process of
composing their own. Both could be cruel,
but not for long. Neither grasped Empire or
other larger structures. They operated in
small spaces, like boxers. They never got
over their crushes on London and Paris.
Hard prose easily understood. What's not
to understand? they ask each other in
Heaven, dining and drinking extravagantly.
Prose is there to preserve surges of intellect.
They get to missing Alice and Boswell, so
here they go, searching, walking together--
oh my, what a sight. Peering around a
corner, very short Picasso sketches them
and yearns to cry out that he is a genius, too.
But God's put Pablo on probation.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
The Smoking Gun
The Smoking Gun
The .45 learned to smoke from an old .22.
Now it puffs on hand-rolled cigarettes
regularly--so great to get out of the holster
and relax for a few minutes. Sometimes
it's joined by a 12-gauge shotgun, which
prefers plump cigars. Surprisingly,
the snub-nose .38 smokes a pipe,
Meerschaum, puffs meditatively,
dreaming of hard-boiled, pulp-soft
crime novels, blowsy dames, and
paper bullets aimed at imaginary targets.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
The .45 learned to smoke from an old .22.
Now it puffs on hand-rolled cigarettes
regularly--so great to get out of the holster
and relax for a few minutes. Sometimes
it's joined by a 12-gauge shotgun, which
prefers plump cigars. Surprisingly,
the snub-nose .38 smokes a pipe,
Meerschaum, puffs meditatively,
dreaming of hard-boiled, pulp-soft
crime novels, blowsy dames, and
paper bullets aimed at imaginary targets.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
A Poet Considers Probability
Probability: A Poet's View
Hey, if something happens, didn't it
have a 100% chance of happening--
apparently? I mean, math's fun, but
most variables don't get
noticed until after occurrence: The
coin lay on the table heads-up.
Something someone said affected
the force of the flip. Witnesses
would later agree an impulse of
destiny passed through the place,
palpable, like a whiff of cordite.
Having factored in everything,
if we could have done so early,
we'd dispense with Pascal, Fermat,
and numbers, plus their accessories,
such as parentheses and arrowheads.
Our equation would read, "Of course--
oh, absolutely--it will happen."
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Hey, if something happens, didn't it
have a 100% chance of happening--
apparently? I mean, math's fun, but
most variables don't get
noticed until after occurrence: The
coin lay on the table heads-up.
Something someone said affected
the force of the flip. Witnesses
would later agree an impulse of
destiny passed through the place,
palpable, like a whiff of cordite.
Having factored in everything,
if we could have done so early,
we'd dispense with Pascal, Fermat,
and numbers, plus their accessories,
such as parentheses and arrowheads.
Our equation would read, "Of course--
oh, absolutely--it will happen."
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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