+
=
+
=
Clothing Catalogues
I like to look at clothing catalogues
because the photographed models
look so glad. "This sweater makes
me very happy," says a photo of a
man. "We're both wearing hopeful
skirts," says a snapshot of two women.
Some clothes appear without models
but seem animated: arms of shirts
and blouses assert themselves.
"We won't wait for bodies to take
us traveling," says the cloth. Noble
prose describes the products:
"Traditional cashmere in contemporary
styles. Imported." Retail catalogues
are a kind of comedy in which people
marry products in the end and prices
dance with prose. You see in a good
light what's for sale, gazing at
things you think might improve you.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Monday, January 31, 2011
Prose to Verse--Yoga Poem
In poetry-class today, we looked at a variety of short lyric-poems, discussed a few, and then did some writing. One of several options for writing was to take the advice Robert Frost apparently gave Edward Thomas, which was to describe in prose some occurrence or observation and then--gradually or not--begin to turn the writing into verse. One result is the plain-spoken, understated lyricism we find in Frost, Thomas, Larkin, and others.
I almost always write when students write, so today I chose the Frost/Thomas option and wrote a draft-poem about yoga:
Yoga Poem
When I do yoga,
yoga does me.
I'm supposed to
practice easily,
but I don't breathe
occasionally.
Silly, I know.
Yoga does me.
Afterward, I
do feel good--
more like
flesh than wood.
More of yoga,
less of me:
that may be
one yoga-key.
Not quite up to the standards of "Dust of Snow" (Frost) and "Adelstrop" (Thomas), which we read, but it's a start.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
I almost always write when students write, so today I chose the Frost/Thomas option and wrote a draft-poem about yoga:
Yoga Poem
When I do yoga,
yoga does me.
I'm supposed to
practice easily,
but I don't breathe
occasionally.
Silly, I know.
Yoga does me.
Afterward, I
do feel good--
more like
flesh than wood.
More of yoga,
less of me:
that may be
one yoga-key.
Not quite up to the standards of "Dust of Snow" (Frost) and "Adelstrop" (Thomas), which we read, but it's a start.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Elvis at his Burlesque Best
Elvis's drummer once said that when he and Elvis improvised, it was a bit like a burlesque act. Here's Elvis in Vegas having a lot of fun:
Elvis/Vegas
Elvis/Vegas
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Clinging
*
*
*
*
Clinging
Clinging can be a symptom of fear,
obviously so when you cling to fear.
But ... "the only thing we have to fear
is fear itself": bullshit then, bullshit now.
A necessary lie, however: people
seemed to need it to get by, by and by.
Me, I cling to books in general and
particular, going so far as to keep
particular books in bed. They are
objects and talismans to me, not
simply stored data, you see.
I cling to other things--like my
father's pickup truck, my mother's
piano, a woodpecker-toothpick dis-
penser I used to play with on my
aunt's kitchen table; also notebooks,
baseball cards, on and on: the less
valuable, the better. I don't collect:
I cling.
To old opinions. To old friends--until
they finally shut the friendship down
by not sending that annual card.
To scenes from childhood, good and bad.
To memories of people who did bad but
through corruption came out well. To
the idea of justice. To things people promised--
including me. And of course it's all about
me, see, the clinging. If I hold on, it won't
change, or it still exists somehow, or it
won't go away, or . . . .
Bullshit--then and now. My clinging's folly.
The Buddhists say don't get attached. I've
clung to that idea. I get it. Still I say,
"Fuck you--that's the same as saying
don't breathe oxygen." Bullshit then,
bullshit now, grasshopper.
Do you cling? I hope so. Just enough,
though. Aim high . Stay low.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
Clinging
Clinging can be a symptom of fear,
obviously so when you cling to fear.
But ... "the only thing we have to fear
is fear itself": bullshit then, bullshit now.
A necessary lie, however: people
seemed to need it to get by, by and by.
Me, I cling to books in general and
particular, going so far as to keep
particular books in bed. They are
objects and talismans to me, not
simply stored data, you see.
I cling to other things--like my
father's pickup truck, my mother's
piano, a woodpecker-toothpick dis-
penser I used to play with on my
aunt's kitchen table; also notebooks,
baseball cards, on and on: the less
valuable, the better. I don't collect:
I cling.
To old opinions. To old friends--until
they finally shut the friendship down
by not sending that annual card.
To scenes from childhood, good and bad.
To memories of people who did bad but
through corruption came out well. To
the idea of justice. To things people promised--
including me. And of course it's all about
me, see, the clinging. If I hold on, it won't
change, or it still exists somehow, or it
won't go away, or . . . .
Bullshit--then and now. My clinging's folly.
The Buddhists say don't get attached. I've
clung to that idea. I get it. Still I say,
"Fuck you--that's the same as saying
don't breathe oxygen." Bullshit then,
bullshit now, grasshopper.
Do you cling? I hope so. Just enough,
though. Aim high . Stay low.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)