Sometimes I think
of all the great poems
lost to us through
one happenstance
or another. They
gleam like rare
stones lying on the
face of another
galaxy's moon.
hans ostrom 2013
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Friday, June 7, 2013
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Istanbul
In that city, small shops
formed hives of work and talk
and tradition. Birds whirled,
wheeled in flight, dove above
dusty trees at dusk. Voices
called, young and old. There
was the voice of the boy in
the alley calling for his friend,
"Ahhhhh-maaaad!" There were
the voices of the calls
to prayer. That city was a place
of tough vitality. Ferocity
and beauty shone in dark eyes.
Oh, yes, we recalled that
James Baldwin loved it here.
There was a seduction of breezes
after the sun went down. In that
city, acres of red-tiled
roof-tops accepted light and heat,
and people there accepted
their lives, their condition--
for the time being.
Hans Ostrom 2013
formed hives of work and talk
and tradition. Birds whirled,
wheeled in flight, dove above
dusty trees at dusk. Voices
called, young and old. There
was the voice of the boy in
the alley calling for his friend,
"Ahhhhh-maaaad!" There were
the voices of the calls
to prayer. That city was a place
of tough vitality. Ferocity
and beauty shone in dark eyes.
Oh, yes, we recalled that
James Baldwin loved it here.
There was a seduction of breezes
after the sun went down. In that
city, acres of red-tiled
roof-tops accepted light and heat,
and people there accepted
their lives, their condition--
for the time being.
Hans Ostrom 2013
Monday, June 3, 2013
The Back-And-Forth
They forced him
to go shopping
but he got back
at them by having
all their memos
drained from
his consciousness.
hans ostrom 2013
to go shopping
but he got back
at them by having
all their memos
drained from
his consciousness.
hans ostrom 2013
Friday, May 31, 2013
Poetry Isn't War
Plath advised, "Write with blood." That's not
necessary unless you're imprisoned. Poetry's
not war. Writers like to give melodramatic
advice and even take it sometimes. That's
their problem. Write the best way you know
how. Ink--real and virtual--works just fine.
Don't kill yourself--because then you can't
write anything. Unless you're really oppressed,
don't force yourself to act as if you are.
They like to keep Plath's morbid celebrity
alive. They have their reasons, I guess.
I recoil from those. Read Plath's poems.
Many of them are very good. That is enough.
More of them would have been even better.
Life, life, life: poetry is life.
hans ostrom 2013
necessary unless you're imprisoned. Poetry's
not war. Writers like to give melodramatic
advice and even take it sometimes. That's
their problem. Write the best way you know
how. Ink--real and virtual--works just fine.
Don't kill yourself--because then you can't
write anything. Unless you're really oppressed,
don't force yourself to act as if you are.
They like to keep Plath's morbid celebrity
alive. They have their reasons, I guess.
I recoil from those. Read Plath's poems.
Many of them are very good. That is enough.
More of them would have been even better.
Life, life, life: poetry is life.
hans ostrom 2013
Qualifications
I have a Ph.D. in Foolish,
with specializations in
Impulsive and Awkward.
I earned a certificate in
Befuddled--and pursued
additional training in Perplexed.
"You're kind of a fuck-up,
aren't you?" I asked myself.
"Yes, yes I am," I replied,
"but you're no goddamned bargain."
hans ostrom 2013
with specializations in
Impulsive and Awkward.
I earned a certificate in
Befuddled--and pursued
additional training in Perplexed.
"You're kind of a fuck-up,
aren't you?" I asked myself.
"Yes, yes I am," I replied,
"but you're no goddamned bargain."
hans ostrom 2013
In Pursuit of Happiness
Headquarters, be advised,
we are in pursuit of happiness.
Officer is down
on his knees, praying
for redemption. Alleged
miscreant has been advised
of his lights,
and is rising in a red sky.
Moses and Christ,
also Buddha and Allah,
we ask:
what has happened
to our species,
which achieves, achieves,
but that is all?
Headquarters, please
copy our call.
We are over. We are out.
hans ostrom 2013
we are in pursuit of happiness.
Officer is down
on his knees, praying
for redemption. Alleged
miscreant has been advised
of his lights,
and is rising in a red sky.
Moses and Christ,
also Buddha and Allah,
we ask:
what has happened
to our species,
which achieves, achieves,
but that is all?
Headquarters, please
copy our call.
We are over. We are out.
hans ostrom 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Re-Posting One for Memorial Day: "For Charles Epps"
For Charles Epps
(1953-1971)
What's left these 38 years after Charlie
died? The same as what was left a minute
after he died: an avalanche of absence.
I've visited the grave. I always go alone. I
let morbidity, a pettiness, arise, think
of what's under ground, including
the baseball uniform in which they put
his body. It's easy to move past small,
awful thoughts. What's left to resolve?
Everything. He ought to be alive. God
knows that as well as I. My knowledge
stops there. I don't know why he died,
only how, when, where, and with whom--
Sonny Ellis. Their death numbed,
scandalized, and scarred me, but so what?
I got to live at least 38 years more
than they. When I die, so will my grief,
and so it goes. Like an instinctive,
migratory mourner, I think of Charlie
at least four times a year and every May
and try to think of something more to say.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
(1953-1971)
What's left these 38 years after Charlie
died? The same as what was left a minute
after he died: an avalanche of absence.
I've visited the grave. I always go alone. I
let morbidity, a pettiness, arise, think
of what's under ground, including
the baseball uniform in which they put
his body. It's easy to move past small,
awful thoughts. What's left to resolve?
Everything. He ought to be alive. God
knows that as well as I. My knowledge
stops there. I don't know why he died,
only how, when, where, and with whom--
Sonny Ellis. Their death numbed,
scandalized, and scarred me, but so what?
I got to live at least 38 years more
than they. When I die, so will my grief,
and so it goes. Like an instinctive,
migratory mourner, I think of Charlie
at least four times a year and every May
and try to think of something more to say.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Saturday, May 25, 2013
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