Monday, February 7, 2011

slow down

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slow down

a north carolinian i know continues
a quest to know himself & out west
i think that's good because most people
are on the same kind of path but don't
know it or won't admit it. me, i've

been running, pushing, working,
catching up, and attempting
most of my life & now have to
train myself to stop, look, think,
but mostly stop: life's not

something to solve through work
and will. if you'd know something,
then slow something down, i
tell myself, thinking of the north
carolinian in question, his schedule
spare and regular, allowing
 patient thought. slow down.
slow, i tell myself. whoever
myself is must look into that.


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

One Poem, Three Readers: "Shivering Sands," by Philip Quinlan

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"

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

"Frederick Douglass 1817-1895," by Langston Hughes

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

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

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

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