The Sonnet Is a Puzzle in a Box

The sonnet is a puzzle in a box
That sits there on the shelf of poetry.
Of course the form has taken many knocks,
In part because of its ubiquity.

Indeed, as here, one writes about the form
When writing in it: ah, meta-verse,
It seems, became a while back the norm.
Some think it makes the sonnet even worse.

The sonnet lends itself to poise and pace,
And yet one feels quite rushed to make a point:
Iambic sprint, three quatrains in a race.
The last two lines, however, own the joint.

Well, here we are. This is the thirteenth line.
This sonnet says its feeling mighty fine.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

Such a Lovely Education

When she walks into a room,
she shines the shadows away.
When she walks into a room,
she shows hips how to sway.

When she looks into your eyes,
she pulls them into hers.
When she looks into yours eyes,
the love-lust motor whirs.

When she talks, talks low to you,
warm honey comes to mind.
When she talks, talks low to you,
You feel your heart unbind.

The walk, the words, the look
construct this fascination.
The walk, the words, the look:
Such a lovely education.


Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012

Category: Vulvas (a found poem)

Category: Vulvas. Note:  This

category should be empty. Any

content should be recategorized.

This tag should be used

on existing categories

that are likely to be used by others,

even though the “real”

category is elsewhere.

 Hans Ostrom, 2012

found on wikipedia

 

Frustration Station

At Frustration Station, crates

of bad karma get off-loaded,

vats of bile sit in storage, and

tickets turn to paste.  Conductors

have called a halt. Engineers

weep, and tunnels belch hot wind.

Departures and arrivals melt

into one immobile blob.  Turnstiles

turn into empty gun-barrels aimed

at one another. Vermin gnaw

wires of  ambition.  Only the fiddler

playing for oily coins is happy.

These faces, these faces, these

faces twist toward scream.  

Hans Ostrom, 2012

"A Chromatic Passing-Note," by Kingsley Amis

The Commonplace Sage

The sage on the mountain's a commonplace
sage. He's suspicious of gurus. He invites
you to spend only what you have, buy
no more than you need.  The commonplace

sage tells poets they're only as good
as their latest poem. A laurel's just
a shrub. The sage says if you want
to argue politics, debate yourself.

Sage suggests you re-familiarize
yourself with arithmetic, popular
music, and the software known
as Crap Detector 2.0.  Thinks

you might want to find the good
sense you misplaced when you
were a big deal there for a while.
This common sage sings a tune

or two, and wow: here comes a
herd of memories across a neon
pasture, and the needed card
floats up on the river, and

Frank Zappa clowns around in

heaven with Steve Allen's toupé.

Hans Ostrom, 2012

People Who Go Fishing

We sit. We stand. We walk
and wade and float and wait.
We work with things
from a diminutive realm:

string, bits of cloth, feathers,
miniature coins and jewelry,
lead pearls, worms, tiny eggs,
eyelets, small wheels, thin sticks.

Like psychologists, geologists,
and those obsessed with Hell,
we're obsessed with a submerged
dominion, about which we invent
myths, toward which we harbor
resentments, and into which
we cast gleaming desires.
We are deceivers of water-creatures.
We are lords of the sky-world.

We do not travel water to get somewhere.
To us, Odysseus was an abject fool.
Our world is lyric, not epic.  Ahab
was a reckless tourist. Jonah was bait.
And yes, we know whales aren't fish,
so be quiet.  Ssshhh! Did you hear that?
Did you feel that? We live for small
signs of animated resistance, for
the life on the line.  No, it is not
time to go. There is plenty of light left.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

Hiram Goes to Cafe Fear

(another in a series of "Hiram" poems)

Hiram Goes To Café Fear

Hiram thinks, “Here I am sitting inside

my shirt, shoes, and trousers, on a chair

at a table in a café.  I am afraid

of dying.  Also of nothing.  I tell

a waitress what I want for lunch.

She brings it.  I eat it, holding off

fear for a while.  I don’t know

who or why I am.  I am aware

of sitting, afraid, inside my clothes

and body.  This is me, I think. 

So this is me and this my fear.”

Hans Ostrom, 2012

Spiders' Migration

(re-posting a seasonal poem)


Spiders' Migration

Northern Hemisphere, September: spiders

come inside.  They slip through seams

to here, where summer seems to them

to spend the winter.  Their digits tap out

code on hardwood floors.  They rappel

from ceilings on out-spooled filaments

of mucous, measuring the place.  Sometimes

they stay just still.  Paused.  Poised.

It’s not as if spiders wait for us

to watch them, or even as if they

wait.  Rather, octavian motion

is so easy, syncopated, and several

that stillness surely exhilarates spiders

just arriving from the Northern Hemisphere.

It’s time for us to enter equal days and

equal nights, to pluck the filament between

fear of and fascination with spiders

moving in.

Hans Ostrom, 2012

This Happens To Be It

All right, thought Hiram,
this happens to be it--
what is real. I am
walking home on a sidewalk,
and I am drunk,
and I am passing by
a twenty-foot boat
that is situated
between the sidewalk
and someone's yard,
and sophisticated engines
driving cars
are passing me,
and I look at my distorted
shadow exactly
as I did when I was seven
years old: it is
that elongated,
legs-go-forever
shadow.  And I am:
so what? And I
am walking home,
knowing the way,
what is home (?),
what is the way (?),
is this what is (?),
and I must go on
as if this is what is,
and I keep walking.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

Saloon Statment

You know (she said),
it's very important
to remember
the difference between
getting crazy
and
just being
a little
bit
drunk,
okay?



Hans Ostrom, 2012