Video/reading of a lovely, whimsical love poem by Robert Desnos, translated from the French:
link:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPqht2HE7jY
Saturday, September 5, 2020
Friday, September 4, 2020
My Journey of Self-Discovery: Postponed
Once more I've had
to postpone my journey
of self-discovery. Just
too many other things
to do. Cooking, cleaning,
sleeping, reading. In
theory, sex. Plus there's
the old, yet to be solved
problem: what would
I do at the end of my
journey of self-discovery?
Write a report? Say
"Nice to meet you"?
I think it would be very
awkward to converse
with my self-discovered self.
hans ostrom 2020
The Novel of Your Life
The novel of life
goes along and then
the letters, words,
sentences, and paragraphs
start slipping off the page
until finally, all blank
pages. It's the novel
only you get to read
all the way through,
through to the end.
It's your favorite
novel because no one
wrote it, not even you.
hans ostrom 2020
From a Diary of the Plague Year (18)
(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
Avocado
And here we have
a globular gem
encased in a clear
sunrise over bright
green hills. All is
finished in fine,
pebbled leather
that ages toward black.
The name became
hybridized, starting
as the native plant
ahuacatl, shifting into
aguacate, settling
into avocado,
which resonates
with the sound
of a secret and just
society.
After disassembling
and devouring one,
we always wish to do
something with the hard
sphere surviving--
perhaps invent a sport
around it, such as
avocado billiards
or symbolic soccer.
But we feel a bit
lethargic after ingesting
yellow and green.
Waking from a nap,
we notice once again
that the little brown
planet has left our
solar system.
hans ostrom 2020
Thursday, September 3, 2020
"Autumn," by Guillaume Apollinaire
Reading/video of a short autumn poem by the French Modernist Apollinaire.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2caHsh8ZVk
Wednesday, September 2, 2020
Ten Commandments for Artists
Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral wrote "Decalogue of the Artist," a poem that sets some high standards for art. A reading/video:
Tuesday, September 1, 2020
"Lana Turner Has Collapsed," by Frank O'Hara
An amusing poem (in my opinion) by Frank O'Hara--reading/video:
Monday, August 31, 2020
The Homosexual Agenda and Weather
[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
Four Questions About the Future
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:
Sunday, August 30, 2020
Rainbow Matters: the Well Lit Time
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 that Swiss Place
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
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