"The Moon and the World," Poems from the Sanskrit

Women and Words

Women and Words


I chose to write poems, although "choice"
is a bit strong. No one really takes poetry
seriously, especially those who pretend to,
but that's another poem.

Simply by virtue of writing poems, I became
a poet--that's the way it works, and so what?
I like that original choice as much as I like
the choices to befriend outcasts, say
the impolitic (as opposed to the fake
"politically incorrect"), remain unpolished,
hurl myself into this project and that, and
think too much with my cock and my tongue,

both desperately interested in women--
those magical creatures who are, yes I know,
just people (but are you sure?). So here I am
writing again in a notebook and online, in some
already forgotten pixel of the universe. This

writing works for no one.  Again: it works
for no one. It is unemployed. It is useless,
without economic value. It may also have
other virtues besides this. Who knows?

The thing is, when I realized words
and women were part of the universe, this
only world I know, I was, as they say, on board.
And now there's poetry. And one woman.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Wood-Cutting Days

Wood-Cutting Days

After the chainsaws stop snarling, roaring,
and smoking and get set down, hot, the woods
seem to reassert their muted sounds.
And after the splitting-mauls fall hundreds
of times, and you're sweating and smelling
of sawdust, chain-oil, and last night's whiskey,
and after the truck is loaded with freshly split wood
redolent of sap and pitch, then it's time to load
yourself into the stove of time, to let it consume you
and reproduce you decades later, when you're
in the midst of a task and stop and remember
one of those wood-cutting days, back when,
although knowing otherwise, you let yourself
indulge in the idea that there was an unlimited
number of such days. And there's such comfort
in knowing at least the woods are still there,
that all your sweating, time, and toil (how funny)
didn't make a dent in the forest, forest of wood.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Impertinence

Impertinence

If you are told you've been impertinent,
It doesn't mean your  comments don't pertain.
Indeed it means they have been relevant,
And to the listener, they've caused a strain.
There is a chance of course you have been rude.
More likely though you've irked authority
And sparked in it a harsh, parental mood,
And a desire to guard territory.
So: insubordinate is what you've been,
Presuming to be level with the boss.
The power wants you docile like some moss.
Let us suggest then that "impertinent"
Is rather, roundabout, a compliment.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

"Orchard in January," by Richard Wilbur

Unit of Time

Unit of Time


There's only one legitimate unit of time.
We call it (in English) "time" or "Time."
We move through this infinite
unit, so we need to invent parts
where none exist.. If Time

had a point of view, it might look
at second, decade, billion years,
and yesterday, and think, "Huh?"

To Time, all attempted parsings
of it must appear to be nonsense,
a waste of our time, but not of
time, none of which ever elapses,
or can be wasted.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Yoga Poem #6

Yoga Poem #6


All right, it's pigeon's pose again.
My hips and knees confer briefly,
then issue a joint-statement to me:
Go to Hell. I look like a dinosaur-bird
brought down by a lightning bolt.

From distant corners of the Yoga
World, assistants rush to prop me up.
I am a Yoga Emergency.

Incidentally, I've never seen
a pigeon sit this way, but this
is a mere quibble, a coo.

The flexible women in class
seem to reach this pose with ease.
So I think of them, kindly, as doves.

I like these difficult poses because
they make life's absurdity plain. Here
I am, gnarled legs on red mat,
because I think it's good for me,
and it is good for me. Wow. Now

the women, the doves, lift off!
They fly around the room above
me, they roost on the air duct,
and they coo happily! Okay,
not really, but now we're in
forward-fold, and I'm so
relieved I hallucinate mildly.

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

"at home," by Carter Monroe

Yoga Poem #5

Yoga Poem #5


I'm not sure what war
they were fighting with
the warrior poses, but
I deduce the stakes
weren't very high.
Back off, enemy mine,
or I shall bend my knee
slightly further!
If only we could evolve
to such a state--in which
warriors are able only
to pose, all occupying
higher ground.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Yoga Poem #4

Yoga Poem #4


I tried Bikram yoga--twice. "The second
visit means you're stupid," a close advisor
said. The instructor copped the attitude
of a fussy German bureaucrat, and her
male assistant acted like her pet. Hand-
lettered signs adorned the place
concerning what  and what not
to do. The room was too goddamned
hot: Ockham's Razor slices through
the Bikram. So as not to stroke out,
I finally just lay on my mat, opened
my mouth as I'd seen hot hounds do,
and rested like a tranquilized polar bear.
The instructor approached, loomed over
me with her microphone headset, said,
"You must close your mouth. Otherwise,

we'll think you're dead." I found her
concern touching. In the locker-room
afterward, three of us commiserated,
heads smoking. One guy made a business-
call on his cell-phone. The assistant appeared--
having been eavesdropping, it seemed. He
ordered, "No cell-phones in the building."

When somebody starts trying to control
your behavior beyond the mat, you have
the makings of a cult. And as they say
in Zen business school, "Don't forget
who the customer is, grasshopper."

But at the other yoga place now, I've
been encouraged to let such attachments
go before beginning the session's practice.
So I'm letting go of oven-yoga. Really.
I'm really letting go of it. After all, some
people seem to like it.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Poe Sonnet

Poe Sonnet

He was so utterly American,
Careening through his life deliberately,
Addicted to both impulse and ambition.
He wrote for art and also for the money.
New England and the South converged in him,
Dividing up his traits chaotically:
Roderick Usher and A. Gordon Pym.
He wielded gothic excess gleefully.
In Hollywood he'd find himself today,
Overindulged, in rehab, overpaid.
Over-the-top was Edgar Allan's way.
He always led imagination on a raid.
Gargantuan and childish, you know:
The disunited state of E.A. Poe.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

"hate blows a bubble," by e.e. cummings

"Harlem Dance Hall," by Langston Hughes