Thursday, January 20, 2011

Know/Don't Know

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Know/Don't Know


I know
pretty much what you know
but I
also don't know anything like
you know
about the specific secret flow
of your
life--the essential realities of what you
and only
you can know. So here we are, same frame
of references
but different essences.
How do
you do?  You may say how
you do
but also cannot come close to
saying how
and what you do, how precisely it is to
be you,
to me. Still we must proceed with introductions.


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

Yoga Poem #7

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Yoga Poem #7


Among the willows
beside
the creek I am a
boulder.

Yoga Creek flows.
Willows,
full of its water,
flex.

They bow, stretch.
Hey,
the boulder participates
in

its own way. Its
molecules
expand, contract.
(Sigh).

The boulder's mat
envies
the willows' mats,
but

the boulder is
fine
with being a rock among
willows.


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

"Old Shoes"/Trudy Pitts Trio

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

"Music When Soft Voices Die," by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Just Ray

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)
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)


We'd Say That's Just Ray


He built up a furniture-store in Sacramento,
made enough to have a summer Sierra home.
This was back when families owned such stores,
before meta-corporations rolled over them
with container-shipments, volume, capital, etc.

Ray's employees embezzled. The business
collapsed.  A proud man defeated. Nobody
doesn't lose. We're told differently ("you can
be whatever you want") because it's good for
business. Yep, Ray was his name. A good man

as far as we could tell, our ages ranging from 6 to
15.  We had to furnish a tree fort, and one of us,
not me, put a garter snake down Ray's daughter's
shirt one summer when she was climbing up.
Laurel was her name. Tough. She told her
mother to shut up. This was before the thieves
wrecked Ray.  If he were alive today,

he'd say something sober and true about success.
We'd probably humor him and say, after he'd left,
"Oh, that's just Ray."

Copyright 2011 Ostrom

Monday, January 17, 2011

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgments in books are a genre unto itself, with sub-genres like the academic-book kind, the poetry-boo kind, even the textbook kind. Some are a bit grudging, as if the author hates thanking anybody. Some are expansive, even excessive--the author as darned excited.  You can bet that the spouse and the agent (if the author has either or both) get thanked. 

Anyway, I decided to play around with this in a poem.




Acknowledgements


First, I must express my gratitude
to Ladislaw Kruplizard for allowing me
to borrow his twenty-volume treatise
on Viking axes.  Elliot Logbottom, Ezra
Liverdust, Diana Glutenate, and Myron
Timitomi all glanced at drafts of the manuscript
and rolled their eyes. I thank them, and I have
a long memory.  Mao Lee Williams, Fidel
Du Pont, and Tami Bumble let me camp
in their backyards and fight raccoons
for garbage. No, really; thanks. To

the janitor at the Newton Figg Libary of
Fascinating Items, my thanks for letting
me in the back way, and mum's the word.

Finally, there are no words to express
adequate gratitude to my former wife,
Lady Esther Feastfoot, whose lawyers
destroyed my lawyers, thereby leaving
me with little to do but write this book.
Esther, the libel laws are on my side.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Memory's Bus

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Memory's Bus

Memory is madness
that's deemed sane.
It hums lost tunes and
strolls a lost lane.

It makes things up
and calls them "Past."
It manufactures
replicas that last.

For language and math,
memory's all right.
It helps you hold what
you read last night.

Its versions of us, though,
become who we are.
Arbitrarily, it selects
scenes that will star.

In the story of us, memory
tells and retells us.
Memory drives the
weirdest tour-bus.


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

Earth As Art

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Earth As Art


In aircraft over Eastern Oregon, see winter's
landscape white and blue. White discs equal
crop fields: wheat? Lake-blue equals not
lake but mountains' shadows: shockingly
beautiful and surreal. Brownish blue is lake.

All color down there just is: is simply it.
Allow color to be abstract if you will.

White ends abruptly as a suede plain
opens up to view.  Plain cannot desire
view, unlike artists and their art. This
sculpted painting below comes from
genius of, genesis of, Earth. Down there,
as up here where jet-trails briefly mark
the sky, humans have etched geometric
shapes and scrawled highways. That's
about all.  Otherwise, Earth is left
alone to the studio of itself.


Copyright 2011