"Little Lyric," by Hans Ostrom

"The Guitar," by Federico Garcia Lorca

"Ancient Stairway," by Denise Levertov

"Harlem Wine," by Countee Cullen

New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve


it's New Year's Eve and
i'm lying in bed writing,
writing as usual. i start a
poem, then hear the phone,
get out of bed, and answer it.

the person calling
is a very close friend
and says, "i'm terribly
anxious now--i don't
know why--is everything
going to be okay?"

"yes," i answer, "it is."
my friend seems relieved.
soon the conversation ends.
i go back to bed. i'm wearing
a white oxford-cloth, button-
down shirt, not pajamas.
there are 7 books on the bed
and debris. i start to write again.

it's almost New Year's Day,
and everything is going
to be okay, if  i'm right,
and if i'm wrong.


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

"Learned Critics," by Bhavabhuti

"Heavy Trash," by Mark Halliday

"The Back," by Karl Shapiro

"Employee," by Hans Ostrom

The Addictions of Sin: W. H. Auden in His Own Words (6/6)

"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