(housebound)
the cat looks out a window I
look at the cat, which looks
at its paw and then at the woman
who looks at the cat and then
looks at me, who is looking out
a window and then looking at
the woman, who says "why
are you looking at me that
way?" and I say "what way?"
and she shakes her head
and looks at the cat and
the cat looks out a window
hans ostrom 2020
Reading/video of a short autumn poem by the French Modernist Apollinaire.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2caHsh8ZVk
Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral wrote "Decalogue of the Artist," a poem that sets some high standards for art. A reading/video:
An amusing poem (in my opinion) by Frank O'Hara--reading/video:
[re-posting one from a long while back]
"Defend and Proclaim the Faith Ministries' Founder and Pastor John McTernan has blamed Hurricane Sandy on homosexuals and President Obama," reports Gay Star News [October 29, 2012]"
I see where a pastor opined
that a big tropical storm
arose because of the homosexual
agenda, which I gather
goes as follows:
1. Call to Order
2. Approve gay minutes from the previous homosexual meeting.
3. Old Business: continuing to be who we are.
4. New Business: affecting the weather.
5. Adjournment.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
I think my favorite song by Mickey Newbury is the 3/4 tempo ballad, "The Future's Not What It Used to Be"
Anyway, here's a reading/video of a revised poem of mine posted a few years ago:
So it's morning or afternoon
and there's an invisible cone
lying prone, see, with you
at the narrow end and a curtain
of mist droplets at the wide
end. The sun's behind you,
working hard as usual, low
enough to tip the cone to
a 42 degree angle. Now
the droplets confer. They
get in prism formation so
the conical curvature in the mist
blushes variously red orange
yellow green blue indigo violet.
At this crucial juncture,
the mist sings to the sun,
although you can't hear
the song. But you sure
can see it, yes you're in the right
place at the well lit time.
hans ostrom 2020
After eating at a cheap Swiss
place, you two walked
around Paris, which wants
to be walked around.
Back at the hotel, modest
except for big windows,
you got in bed and later
slept the civilized sleep of
food and wine and sex.
Woke to gray light,
to rain bothering glass.
Embraced under covers
to ward off chill. Desired
coffee. Fell back asleep,
back into the many privileges
afforded at the moment.
Noise of traffic, of work,
rose outside.
hans ostrom 2020
Reading/video of a poem by Mr. Bukowski; the poem is not about working out, I should add.
reading/video of a poem by Donald Davie, British poet, scholar, and professor--he taught in the U.S. at Stanford and Vanderbilt:
link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTG7Pyy5m28
