Nic Sebastian manages the site, Whale Sound, which features, among other things, group-readings; the way they work is that three readers read (record) the same poem. Nic kindly invited me to read Philip Quinlan's "Shivering Sands," so thanks to her for the invitation, and to the poet for the poem. Here is a link to the three readings (the poem is not long):
"Shivering Sands"
Monday, February 7, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Lake
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A Lake
A lake's a lovely dot
that should have ought
to have been if it weren't.
Lakeside, see the burnt
place inside stones:
campfire. The many zones
of any sort of lake
amaze: here fish wake,
there sleep. Shelves, shallows,
a glass surface where swallows,
evenings, select sweet bugs
to eat. Cool shade for slugs.
Shadows, where the muck
rules. A cove where a duck
feels safe and mutters.
Trees behave like shutters,
filtering light, allowing moss.
Humans can't help but toss
junk into lakes. I don't know why.
In the lake, see the sky.
Sit by the lake. My Lord, the sounds.
Even in small lakes life abounds,
from single-cell and bug to frog
to worms beneath a sunken log.
Fish jump, cruise, dive, and school.
Patient lakeside raccoons drool.
Kingfisher and eagle do espy,
and hawk with an awful eye
perceives a chipmunk by the lake.
(Back up that tree, for heaven's sake.)
A blue acceptance, is a lake,
made of snow or stream or spring,
a lovely, yes, a functional thing.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
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!
A Lake
A lake's a lovely dot
that should have ought
to have been if it weren't.
Lakeside, see the burnt
place inside stones:
campfire. The many zones
of any sort of lake
amaze: here fish wake,
there sleep. Shelves, shallows,
a glass surface where swallows,
evenings, select sweet bugs
to eat. Cool shade for slugs.
Shadows, where the muck
rules. A cove where a duck
feels safe and mutters.
Trees behave like shutters,
filtering light, allowing moss.
Humans can't help but toss
junk into lakes. I don't know why.
In the lake, see the sky.
Sit by the lake. My Lord, the sounds.
Even in small lakes life abounds,
from single-cell and bug to frog
to worms beneath a sunken log.
Fish jump, cruise, dive, and school.
Patient lakeside raccoons drool.
Kingfisher and eagle do espy,
and hawk with an awful eye
perceives a chipmunk by the lake.
(Back up that tree, for heaven's sake.)
A blue acceptance, is a lake,
made of snow or stream or spring,
a lovely, yes, a functional thing.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Light on the Hill
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Light on the Hill
Today I passed "The Church of
the Light on the Hill." It was situated
in a damp hollow. "God bless," I said
silently. Later, the accountant said,
"--Provided our assumptions are correct."
I thought, "Indeed."
And they never are; or seldom.
Faith and accounting are of
the same species: hope--
a light upon a mental hill,
a light we look at from a hollow
near the river of our circumstances.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
^
*
@
Light on the Hill
Today I passed "The Church of
the Light on the Hill." It was situated
in a damp hollow. "God bless," I said
silently. Later, the accountant said,
"--Provided our assumptions are correct."
I thought, "Indeed."
And they never are; or seldom.
Faith and accounting are of
the same species: hope--
a light upon a mental hill,
a light we look at from a hollow
near the river of our circumstances.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Clothing Catalogues
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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
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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
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
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