Elegy for Robert Bly (1926-2021)

Flying white hair, cravats, vests,

panchos. Sing-speaking your poems
as you played the lute. Sixties protest
poems, great leaps to Spanish and French
surrealism, a carom north to Friends, You Drank
Some Darkness Swedes. A farm-boy
Norwegian who went to Harvard (and
dated Adrienne Rich once), a troubadour
who hustled a living on the college tour
but would never get stuck in Swamp Tenure.

Once when I saw you read, a student got
up and left, and you said, "Where are you
going--to masturbate?" You were like

one of those friends I hated to go to bars
with--you liked to start fights (without fists.)

Bless you for trying to unharden the arteries
of American poetry, for riffing like a standup
comedian, for making poems explode
and burying Modernists. Then came
your "Men's Movement," well meant
but tin-eared, and Iron John, a Cinderella
for men. After I became a prof,

you came to campus and got the Methodists
dancing to a Brazilian chant. We walked
across campus and you couldn't help but
skewer other poets. When we parted,
you asked, "Are you fond of me, Hans?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm fond of you, Robert." Needy,
like a three-year old. Brilliant, like a mad
scientist. Big hearted--in defiance of cold
fathers everywhere. Well done and--
literally--good show, Robert. I see you
there, dancing on the moon.

Buttons

Click on the Submit button.

*

Button up.
Leave the top button unbuttoned.
Never button the bottom button.

*

He has his finger on the button.
The red button.

*
She hit the return right on the button.

*

If you could just, if you could just
unbutton it a little bit and oh
a little bit more.

*

Yes, right there. That's
it right there. Oh. Oh yes.

*

I never thought I'd miss
the metal buttons on Levi
jeans. I don't. Except now
that I made myself think
of them, I do. I see myself
buttoning up. The first
button down there, not easy.
And if a woman were
to unbutton those jeans
buttons, well . . . .

*

Under the trees, yes,
the button mushrooms arose
like blobs of ghostly paint.

*

Many dolls and sociopaths
have buttons for eyes.

*

For some reason, as she waited
for the bus, she thought
of all the lost buttons
in the world, sinking
into soil or stuck
in cracks of pavement,
wood, and concrete.

*

The extra buttons
sewn on a garment wait
like tiny moons in reserve
for a sky that might need them.

*

When I am invited
to unbutton a woman's blouse
or dress, I feel like a primate,
and I wait for the inevitable
giggle. Eventually, we get there.

Politics at the Carnival

A political scientist once recommended the book, Constructing the Political Spectacle, by Murray Edelman (1988). It seems to be a book that constantly applies. 

Oh, the problems

over there in that city

where buildings sag

and people collide,

stuporous from toil

and streaming their lives. 

Here at the carnival,

all lights and salt and sugar,

our leaders and those who

would replace them

have slathered on

the clown makeup.

They ride the wheels

and loops above. They

shout, "We'll save the city!"

We don't believe them

but we cheer.

hans ostrom 2022

One by Neruda

 "Leaning Into the Afternoon," by Pablo Neruda, master of the surrealist love poem--reading and video, short poem:

"Leaning into the Afternoon"

Annie Moon

 Song--Roger Illsley composed the music for some lyrics I wrote & performed & recorded the song for youtube. Kind of a throw-back, first-love ballad. We had fun with it. 

Annie Moon

Quotation from "A Man For All Seasons," a play by Robert Bolt

 “If we lived in a State where virtue was profitable, common sense would make us good, and greed would make us saintly. And we'd live like animals or angels in the happy land that /needs/ no heroes. But since in fact we see that avarice, anger, envy, pride, sloth, lust and stupidity commonly profit far beyond humility, chastity, fortitude, justice and thought, and have to choose, to be human at all... why then perhaps we /must/ stand fast a little --even at the risk of being heroes.”

― Robert Bolt, A Man for All Seasons

Richard Eberhart's "The Eclipse"

 Fine six-line poem from Richard Eberhart--"The Eclipse." Recorded reading and video:

"The Eclipse"

A Poem About House Guests

 It's by Marianne Moore and conveys her father's philosophy toward visitors to his home.  Short--reading and video:

Marianne Moore poem

Garbage Mountain

 A man drives a long yellow tractor

across a mountain of garbage,

kneading the sickly sweet heap

all day. White gulls fall upon the feast

in shifts. What things have shown

themselves from the churning dream

& surprised the driver over the years

of riding the groaning diesel dinosaur?

Since we throw everything away,

anything could be inside

the writhing, slippery loaf

that cooks in sun heat and cools

in rain. Anything.

A Fine Poem by James Wright

 A short mystical poem by James Wright (1927-1980). One of those poems just to enjoy without pressing too hard for an explication. Text from allpoetry.com. Short video + reading:

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

"You're in Wichita (And I Am Not),"

 I always wanted to write an old-fashioned "country" song with spare lyrics, so I gave it a go and came up with "You're in Wichita (And I Am Not)." with assistance from Roger Illsley, who wrote some music for it and performed and recorded it for Youtube:

"You're in Wichita"

The Genre of Sad Erotica

 In the genre of sad erotica, main

characters are tired and smell bad.

They feel too fat or too thin, too old,
too young or too middling. They touch
their bodies like they handle a heap of laundry.

They're hungry but too tired from work
to cook. Could be no one's there
to cook for them. Or someone's there
but mutual indifference grinds
the ambience like a glacier.

Oh, a bath would feel great but only after
booze or weed. Food delivered?
Microwave launched, cans slashed open?
Leftovers devoured like a dog's breakfast?

They sleep in front of a screen and wake
up confused, then vacant. So where's the
erotica? Well, maybe as bath or shower
stimulates flab and muscle, they think about

sex! They think about what sex might
bring. Oblivion of lust, the feeling
of being someone (well, something,
anyway) someone wants to touch. Alas,

in sad erotica, grotesquely realistic,
people get out of the shower and dry
themselves and put on cotton, linen,
or wool. Likely worn several nights
in a row. They walk slowly to a bed
or couch and fall, exhaling like beasts.

In sleep, maybe dreams of purple
romance, sizzling mystery, and molten
sex will riot. Finally, some action.

Giving Blood

 "We use your blood for babies," says the nurse.

“Give them my best,” I say. She nearly smiles.

The opaque bag darkens shadow-red
with my corpuscular tithing. Blood's

darkness always surprises me, suggests how
blood wells up from mineral earth like lava.

The blood-room’s hushed, as if we lying
on padded tables were sacrificial goats

with slit throats and the strong nurses, priests.
A tall woman or short man who used to be

a baby will stroll in flowered Paris one
day, pulsing traces of my blood, which

is O-Negative and CMV-Negative. My heart
never thought to teach me what these words

and letters mean. Do vampires carry all
types of blood, and is that why they’re

so pale and mean and unproductive?
I mean, get out of the casket, Drac,

go to bloodoholic rehab, give back to
the community. Just don’t donate blood,

and stay the hell away from babies...
Finished, I'm offered a cookie and juice.

hans ostrom 2022