Thursday, December 17, 2020

Istanbul Evening

 (second version)


A white, four-masted yacht slips between

dingy barges and trawlers, disappears into

a blue haze on the Sea of Marmara. The call

to prayer's an hour away. Swallows dive

and glide, pigeons prowl, the sun's

about to settle down. 


Below the terrace, lush maples and oaks

sigh and sway, leaning west. Sounds of traffic,

children, and work never cease. Near a mosque's

minaret on the hill, a faded Turkish flag

flutters in slow motion. Now a seagull appears.


It glides in a wide arc, which now becomes 

a large invisible circle. The glide traces

ever smaller concentric circles against 

the backdrop of the sea until the gull 

lands precisely at the point of a rooftop

below. The gull stands,


strong and ready, facing a low sun, and

something in the scene says all is well

this evening, even when it may not be,

especially if it may not be. 

Poetry Consulates

 (second version)


Pushkin loved the idea of St. Petersburg
and the bronze horseman who saw
the city before it was built. Langston
Hughes loved the idea of Harlem,
also some people there. Did Baudelaire

love Paris? Splenetically, maybe.
I don't think Dickinson loved
any cities. The village of her mind
sufficed, urban in its way.

It pleases me to think
of all the poets writing now
in Istanbul and Mainz, Hong

Kong and Honolulu, Uppsala
and Houston, Brasilia and Berlin,
Tehran and Tangier and all
the other cities where poets
live--every city in other words,
in their words, which
follow their cities around,
no matter how often the
cities change disguises
or suffer horrors. Poets'

words attach themselves to love
and food, despair and dreams,
rage and work and filth and beauty.
If only these poets could meet
and read their poems and argue
but not fight, ask questions
about language and children,
mountains and rivers and trains.
Should we, then, build poetry consulates
in all these poem-filled cities?
Yes, yes we should.

Saturday, December 12, 2020

10 Tips for Successful Holiday Entertaining

 (re-posting one from long ago)


1. Hide

2. Surprise your guests by dressing up as Santa Claws, the Beast from the South Pole.

3. Invite friends of many and no faiths and from across the political spectrum. Insist that they discuss only politics and religion. If the conversation lags, bring up the topic of sports teams.

4. Hold a seance and summon the spirits of dead-gifts-past: Soap on a Rope, the Gensu Slicer, 007 Perfume, Medieval Scholar Barbie.

5. Take any Martha Stewart recipe and add absinthe.

6. Spend an evening with your favorite nice-and-naughty person and insist that she or he be good, for goodness sake, if not excellent.

7. Host a small gathering of Philatelists, and have them display their holiday stamps from around the world.

8. Play "The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies" backwards and listen for secret messages.

9. Sponsor a cage-match between Frosty the Snowman and Jack Frost.

10. After the chestnuts have been roasted on an open fire in the street where you live, put on a bright red nose (and nothing else), dance ecstatically, listen for the festive sounds of sleigh bells, dreidels, and police sirens.

Monday, December 7, 2020

Festival's End

Best not to overlook the courage
required to play out the festival
of days after everyone's gone home
and there's nothing left to see except
darkness eating windblown litter and dust. 



hans ostrom 2020

Sunday, December 6, 2020

Dawn Testimony

I can testify: I saw the sky
fill up with light today. Palest
blue and mildest yellow
mixed, then enlarged like the feeling
of hope. Trees

could pose in silhouette, 
if they so chose. I can report
I smiled one of those smiles
you smile when you don't
know you're smiling. Yes,

it was just dawn, but 
I was there, and I can testify. 


hans ostrom 2020

Better Than Magic

Like salt shakers, stars
drop 40 million tons of dust
on Earth each year. You and I
and all the rest harbor some
of this dust, which doesn't glow
with sentiment, is
of a mineral order. So now

I have to recalibrate a
sense of my component parts.
Some drifted into Earth's
gravitational vase,
and I ate them or brushed
up against them, and the 

body took what came its
way, bits from a star explosion--
well, that's quite a thing,
better than magic. 


hans ostrom 2020

Saturday, December 5, 2020

Clothing Catalogues

 {according to our mailbox, it's definitely catalogue season}


I like to look at clothing catalogues
because 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.


hans ostrom 2011/2020

A Lake

 [a revised one from long ago]


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.


Made of snow or stream or spring,

a lovely, yes, a functional thing:


a blue acceptance, is a lake.


hans ostrom 2020

Friday, December 4, 2020

"Gospel," by Patrick Kavanagh

 Reading/video of a short poem by the well known Irish poet and novelist (1904-1967). It's not about "the" gospel. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPfNXqnjmkQ

Sunday, November 29, 2020

Quick Swedish Rye Bread

My great aunt, Bertha Åström, emigrated to the U.S. from Boden, Sweden (the far north) in the early 20th century. She had become pregnant out of wedlock when she was just 13-- statutory rape, at the very least. It was decided for her, I think, that she should emigrate and leave the child behind. Her eldest brother, Isak, my grandfather, had already come over, and he'd become a hard-rock gold miner, first at the Homestake Mine in the Dakotas, then in Colorado, and finally in Northern California--Grass Valley, Allegheny, and Sierra City. Bertha followed him for a while working as a cook and nanny, before settling in the Bay Area, where she became a nanny. 

Eventually she married, and in the mid-1920s she and her husband built a resort in the Lakes Basin above Sierra City, specifically at Packer Lake. They and some laborers built a log-lodge and some log-cabins. Bertha cooked meals for the guests on a big wood stove. Many people of wealth liked to spend a week or two their in the summers, and they didn't mind roughing it a bit: it wasn't a Hilton. 

By the way, her son Erik eventually made his way to America, and lived in Sierra City for the remainder of his life (and hers).

Before her life was totally disrupted, Bertha was training as a cook in a Boden hotel, and one of the recipes she brought over was for Swedish rye bread, which is quite different from Central European rye breads. It includes molasses, prunes, and anise seeds, and finely diced orange peels, mixed with dark rye flour, white flour, and a few mashed potatoes. My mother learned the recipe from Bertha and passed it along to other generations. It's a yeast bread which requires three risings, so it's an all-day task, pretty much. I adapted the recipe to a quick bread, and it captures the flavor and texture of the original pretty well. Sweet but not too sweet, aromatic, dense. Of course, there's nothing like yeast bread. The recipe:


Quick Swedish Rye Bread

This is a quick version of Bertha Åström’s Swedish (Ostrom’s) yeast) rye bread. The consistency is slightly denser, but the flavor is the same.

Ingredients:

2 cups white flour

2 cups dark rye flour

½ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 cup low-fat buttermilk [if you don't have buttermilk, add white vinegar to milk]

½ cup molasses

½ cup prune juice

2-3 tablespoons of grated orange peel

1 tablespoon dried anise seeds

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

It’s best to sift the flour. Mix flour, salt, soda, orange peel, and anise seeds well.

Mix prune juice and molasses and briefly warm the mixture in a pan.

Add buttermilk and prune juice/molasses to the flour (etc.) and mix. The dough will be quite sticky. Add more buttermilk if necessary.

Briefly kneed the dough and shape it into a circular/oval loaf on a floured surface. Cut an X into the top with a sharp knife.

Place on floured baking tin. Bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes or slightly longer. Remove from oven and let loaf cool on rack.

Hans Ostrom 11/2019

 


Saturday, November 28, 2020

She Wanted to Be Wrong

Cassandra wanted to be wrong.
Her prescience proved to heavy.
She wanted experts, logicians,
or insiders to relieve her of her
knowledge. But, no. When they

ignored, dismissed, mocked, and--
worst of all--reassured her, they
looked like cheerful rabbits
about to be clubbed. Cassandra

wanted the world to right itself
to prove her wrong. She knew
it would remain a hell of war
and hatred. She'd seen the

time when swords hacked
at limbs and arrows buried
themselves in flesh and
people howled at flames
and smoke. Blind, she saw
herself propped against
a wall, hearing and knowing. 


hans ostrom 2020

Friday, November 27, 2020

Budgetary Matters

 [a revision of one I posted years ago]


The spreadsheet is all before you. The farther
left you travel, the more desirable things become.

Indeed the items named seem not just necessary
but inevitable, prophesied. As you travel toward

the reckoning right hand of calculation, acquisition
seems unlikely. You think of Zeno's Paradox.

You begin to feel an urge to save rubber-bands
and bits of string, to eat left-overs, sew

your own clothes, share your food with
people society discounts. When you finally arrive

in the severe, humorless zone of the numbers-column,
you then descend toward the hell of the Bottom Line,

which is, oddly enough, shown by two lines.
At that frontier, expenses devour entrails of income.

Accountants costumed in gray feathers perform
a ghastly arithmetical dance. You hear someone

mumble, "Nothing we can afford is worth doing,"
to which you respond, "Nothing worth doing

is quantifiable," which you don't believe.
You stand up and demand to know the origin

of money. You are forcibly subtracted
from the room. As you depart, you

hear someone say, "I think we just found
some extra money in the budget!"