The Angel of Listening

A group's talking, many

voices interlaced,

a lattice-work of gab--

then all talk suddenly 

stops, as if timed: it's

said "an angel just passed

over," and people laugh,

and then buzzing chat

begins again, builds. Yes:

the Angel of Listening. An

angel of thought, ego retracted

like a cat's claw, minds open

like a veranda on a cottage

near a warm sea. If you can,

come by here more often, Angel.

Help us quiet down, and listen,

and let good thoughts, fresh

ideas, breeze in to mix with

our thinking, refurbish knowing. 

hans ostrom 2022

July: North Yuba River

on the North Yuba River

after wheeling mortar

& carrying rocks all day.

wading, casting a fly--

an old tippet coachman

pattern: white goose

wings, peacock feather

body, black-and-orange

tail. rainbow fly for

rainbow trout. canyon getting

blue. your work-shirt

stinks fine, same for

trout-slimed creel. 

lungs of the canyon

draw air past pines

and oaks. the current

knocks against your

legs like a baby goat.

rush of life never never

stops. here you can pause,

know sufficient peace

and privilege in your life.

plenty of fish in the creel--

maybe breakfast tomorrow.

you stay knee-deep in the flow

for the cool, for the quiet

before the day's door 

closes. now in shadow,

bugs hatch and swarm

biblically. trout leap

in jubilee. reel it in.

stick the fly in cork.

listen. riverside, open

and clean the fish, leave

guts for raccoons. climb

up and out, slipping on shale,

grunting. finally up, winded,

standing next to Highway

49's warm asphalt. no cars

now. tourists in the campground,

town people home or at 

the bar. walk in soaked

jeans and boots up to

the old battered car. 

creel in the trunk. grunt

getting in. start her up.

home in less than a mile.

July mountain air sweet

after heat of day. thanks. 

hans ostrom 2022

Awkward Blues

Do you have

those awkward blues, 

mixing up your

p's and q's?

Lurching in your

scuffed up shoes?

Awkward's not a

mode you choose.

You'd like to take

those social cues,

say right things,

make smooth moves. 

You: born off-beat,

that's all. 

Rather angular,

too short or tall.

More comfortable

against a wall.

Too often, too,

you speak what rises

to your mind--

ignite surprises.

Or go quiet, as

shy advises.

Stride, roll your path,

win and lose.

So you're clumsy:

that's not news.

Croak your own tune,

those awkward blues. 

hans ostrom 2021

Films About Poets

 Reposting one from a while back.

One problem with trying to make a dramatic feature film about poets is that most of the drama in a poet's life occurs in his or her head. A second problem, flowing out of the first, is that the film-makers then try to compensate by focusing on sordid details or on cliche aspects of the alleged "poet's life," such as drinking alcohol, being wild, yadda yadda. A third problem is that, probably, no one should try to "dramatize" the writing process. All of that said, here is a list of movies about poets, pretty much in the order they occurred to me, although I do begin with my favorite:

1. Stevie (1978) It presents her life and doesn't try too hard to dramatize poetry and poets.

2. Priest of Love (1981) About D.H. Lawrence. Not bad. Ava Gardner has a role.

3. The Edge of Love (2008) About Dylan Thomas. Falls into some of the traps mentioned above.

4. Dead Poets Society (1989). A favorite of many. More about poetry and teaching than poets. I liked it all right.

5. Pandaemonium (2000)About Wordsworth and other British Romantic poets. The scenes that try to portray Wordsworth composing are painful to watch. The stuff about literary politics and Wordsworth's ego is good.

6. Beat (2000). Focuses mainly on Burroughs. It's pretty good.

7. Looking for Langston (1988) Quasi-documentary stressing Hughes's sexuality. A fine film--but it really is only about one aspect of Hughes's life, alas.

8. Total Eclipse (1995) Concerning Rimbaud and Verlaine. Very good. With Dicaprio.

9. Dr. Zhivago (1965). Of course, this movie about a lot besides poetry, but the main character is a poet, after all.

10. Beautiful Dreamers (1990). This is the one among the 10 I haven't seen, but it looks intriguing. It's about Walt Whitman. Not great reviews on IMDB, alas.

Inventory after Flood

Last night the river flooded

and hauled away my answers.

I should not have stacked them

so near the bank. I'm left 

with questions stored

in small dry places, bowed

shelves, bitter boxes. So far

the roof is holding.

Rain slaps and pummels

it in surges. I start

to unpack questions.

My smashed answers

roll and twist toward

a delta or a dam or just

rocks on the way. Today

I fret and squirm and

say What are they for?

What are they for? 

This only adds to a stuffed

frustrating inventory. 

hans ostrom 2021

Őland

 Őland

(islands east of the Swedish mainland)

We sail past rocks that glaciers

rubbed round, so the square story

goes. Round heads of old monks,

slick heads of seals sleeping on

black-boulder islands.

We’re sailing to a land, Åland.

It belongs to water, a semi-nation of Swedes

governed by Finns, its very-own flag

air-snapped by unconquered winds.

Three old Swedish men, drinking beer

this early morning, mutter

stories of boats, ships, water, and things

that go wrong. “Panama,” they say.

And “Gävle.” “Titta,” they say: Look,

and we pass the rocks past Őland.

The rocks pass us, looking. Things can’t

go wrong with rocks but can go

wrong on them. White swans

fly by. Earth never stops whirling—

so grave story goes. “Ibland,” the men

say. Sometimes. For Ő, which is island,

say O but with tongue lifted to middle,

an island the vibrations flow past

and out through the O into air.

Å is just oh, and oh is just water.

In Waterland, land becomes a sought-after afterthought:

“Oh. . . . Land.” Ibland. Åland. Őland.

1994/2021

Abandoned Cistern

A few raindrops 

make it through

brush overgrowing

an ancient cistern.

They make the 

slightest sound

as they hit cool

still water. The

cistern used to be

famous. People 

gathered there. Some

were important

and carried themselves

so. Posture, gestures,

clothes, high talk.

They knew and didn't

know that one day

it would be as if

they'd never been 

anyone, anywhere, 

anything. 

A Place to Live

I did not dream I was

assembling an encyclopedia

of all the dreams I'd dreamed.

I did dream an old dream

of searching for a place to live

in of all places Davis California--

wandering in a warm anxious

night of delta breezes,

pressed but plodding--

my usual anti-style.

I never find the place, nor

the elusive seminar 

in German that will allow

me to finish the Ph.D.--

retroactively. Short breaths

and writing wake me. 

I've planned

tonight to dream about your

dream--that spectacular one,

full of light--vibrant street

stirring, with that strange

person in a dark cafe 

who asks to know all about

your life but won't listen. 

If this doesn't sound like

something you'd dream,

please tell your subconscious

mind to text me

from the Cloud, and I will

explain further, but the main

thing is I hope you've 

found a place to live. 

hans ostrom 2021

At Any Rate, Fate

It's coming down the mountains.

  It's climbing up the trees.

It's bubbling up from sidewalks

  And rising to my knees.

It knows bad jokes

  I often told and

Knows each time I cried.

  Doesn't care about my failures

Or all those times I lied. 

It is the Master of the Actual,

  the Mistress of Right-Now.

It's Fate that's heading hard my way.

  I don't know When or How. 

hans ostrom 2021

Midday

(considering Arkady Plastov's 

painting, "Midday," 1961, Russian

Museum, St. Petersburg)

This view will never tell me

what's between the woman and man--

love? Siblings? Friends? It makes me

feel heat lean into their backs

as they lean over that dark wood trough.

Only summer light infuses weeds and

grass this way, gives  them  a furnace

glow. A swooning heat of dreams.

She'd love to bathe, pats her head with

water with her right hand, cups some

in her left. He wants to drink. In

weeds the motorcycle's lean and red,

a bulbous lamp. I say this is a work-

break and think of midday respite

from work in the Sierra. If I stood

with them, I'd used both hands

to cool my face, my neck. I see 

bugs in that grass, youth in those

backs. After the snarl of that bike

fades, I'll slip into the painting,

watch trough-surface tremble,

settle, feel the waterlogged wood,

hear the hiss of grass, feel

sorrow, look for shade. 

hans ostrom 2021

Fires in the Pacific West

Blue wood smoke from wildfires

100 miles away choked the copse.

A morose old traveler sat down 

in it beside a pond. He thought At

least the pond's still here. As was

his fear for everything. An

hallucinated frog lifted its head

from the smoke-scummed water

level, said Nothing you will ever

write, say, do, or think will change

this world, okay? The old man

had always loved amphibians,

the great adapters. He asked Should

I stop caring, then?  But the frog

had absented its green mirage, 

and so: alone, talking in the woods.

Even if you try to be loud, your

voice sounds less than the tiny

ratchet-grind of one grasshopper

leaping. Yes, no more caring today.

Only walking. To home. If it's still

there. If not, more walking. 

hans ostrom 2021

Talking at Night

Maybe you're high, maybe not.

Either way, you're half of 

a conversation that grows

in the night. A seed of chit-

chat roars into a jungle 

of topics, blather, laughter,

and--for this neighborhood,

anyway--deep questions.

You wonder, at the end of 

night, what these are for,

these night talks. Nothing's

bought or sold, no politics

of the moment, name-dropping,

weather, or work. Nor set stories,

thank god. Just talk--

rare these days, these days

when words get nailed to 

walls, kidnapped, suffocated

by intent ignorance, shot dead. 

Just talk, easy as a summer tide.

hans ostrom 2021

Breathing in Blue Lunar Light

He had intended 

to seize the day.

Then night came.

Day slipped away.

He was relieved. 

Night seized him. 

Hot winds and nausea. 

He didn't believe what

he knew or know

what he believed.

Waking, midnight, he

saw blue lunar light

that mellowed air,

turned worries  slight.

He breathed. And breathed. 

hans ostrom 2021