Found-Poem Finale For April

(image: badger, not greasy)

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Well, I had several poems in mind to post on this last day of write-a-poem-a-day month, a.k.a National Poetry Month.

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Then I read the newspaper this morning--the Tacoma News Tribune, which, like all newspapers, is getting smaller all the time, it seems. On page three of the first section, political writer Peter Callaghan had a piece on local building-codes and developers.

Here is one quotation from that piece: "Which is where the 'greasy badgers' came in. That's the phrase architect David Boe, the vice chairman of the [planning] commisssion, used to describe the ornery animals he sometimes has as clients (figuratively, I hope). They ask him to design buildings that 'maximize the site.'"

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I was, of course, interested in Callaghan's use of "figuratively," for, as a poet, I was hoping that the fellow's clients were literally badgers. Ah, well. To each his own. On behalf of badgers, I was a little insulted that they were described as greasy and compared to developers. What did they do to deserve that?

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But the "found-poem" lay in the headline, so thanks to the headline-writer who worked on Callaghan's piece. I have arranged the headline as a poem, and I think the found-poem is nice way to finish off National Poetry Month in this wee badger-den of the blogosphere.

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Found Poem

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Building codes

Can't save us.

We're at the mercy

Of

Developers' moods.

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from The News Tribune (Tacoma), April 30, p. A-3, bottom.

Small Poem For April

(image: Gerard Manley Hopkins)












If memory serves, I first read the poetry of Hopkins when I was 17 and a freshman in college. I was a bit younger than other freshmen because I'd skipped second grade. I don't think they have students skip grades anymore, but I'm not sure about that.

Anyway, when I read "Glory be to God for dappled things" (from "God's Grandeur"), I immediately was taken by Hopkins' poetry and his view of things, a view that is in many ways far from pious. Later I embarked on an exhaustive study of Hopkins' "sprung rhythm," the simple version of which is that instead of spacing out stresses regularly (as in iambic meter), you jam them together and then emphasize them with alliteration. I often like to say Hopkins brought Be-Bop rhythms to English verse, but I'm not sure how helpful or accurate that statement is. It is fair to say he jazzed things up.

Since I first read Hopkins' poetry, I've had many opportunities to try to teach it. A majority of students simply don't take to it, even students who are otherwise open to poetry and to poetry that may seem, at first, difficult. I've tried innumerable different ways of helping students to get inside his poetry, but nonetheless, Hopkins' poetry remains not so much an acquired taste as an instant taste. If you "get" the poetry, you are likely to "get" it right away, I've decided. At any rate, I still cherish Hopkins' counter-intuitive love of "dappled" things--that which is squiggly, dotted, spotted, cluttered, and kind of a mess in Nature. The following poem may or may not be in that vein, but it satisfies my desire to write a short poem in April. (And there's one more day to go in write-a-poem-a-day April, my friends.)


Small Poem In April

This small poem honors
smooth blue pebbles,
flecks of color on birds'
feathers, stalwart friends,
fair wages, and rest.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Summer Carpentry

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Summer Carpentry

Sometimes when Sierra sun baked
and bleached a new house's skeleton,
I'd stand on a plywood sub-floor, jeans
sweat-drenched, forearm fatigued from
hammering all day, and look up at
an immobile mountain greened with
manzanita, fir, oak, and pine, and know
something secretly but not sadly.

We'd built that thing, frame of dwelling.
Wages came, sun lavished light, mountains
mimed illusion of permanence. Everything,
everything changes always and everywhere.
This isn't news but you can come to it
newly after a long's days work with wood.

And the Old Man said, "Hans, time to pick
up the tools," and it was 4:00 p.m. that one
day once in all of time, and somebody wanted
a house by the river. A canyon-breeze caught
sweet odor of sawdust. I stopped staring,
came back to tasks, reached for a saw,
a plumb-bob, a level; moved in and with the
changes. Newly nailed partitions cast shadows.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

List-Poem on the Loose

Here's a list-poem I've been messing around with for the longest time. Actually, the time hasn't been the longest, not even close.

List-poems often work out well on the their own terms, as good poems, but they can also serve as good warm-up exercises or as ways to generate ideas.

In this one, I think I wanted a poem that could be read top-to-bottom (on the left margin) as well as left-to-right (the usual way), but, as usual, this goal ends up being too clever by half or not clever enough or something. Anyway, the point is . . . hang loose, list loosely, and have some fun with a list-poem of your own.

Each

each word a stone each
stone a weight
each weight a wish each
want a wait
each wait a time each
time loss
each loss a lake each
lake a cloak
each cloak a shade each
shade a wish
each wish a lie each
lie a word
each word a yes each word a
no each word a breath
each breath an each

Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

For A Writer

For A Writer

Someone read something a friend of mine
had written and said, "I'm afraid the language
itself gets in the way of the story." This response
puzzled my friend, so she asked the person,
"Why are you afraid, and how do you even know
the story if the language itself didn't tell it to you,
and aren't words supposed to get in the way when
you read?" She admitted that she had deliberately
placed the words between the reader's line of sight
and the blank page or screen. Insulted, the person

told my friend she was ungrateful, rude, and
argumentative. My friend felt badly. I took her
to lunch, partly because I was hungry. "I'm afraid.
I can't read the menu," she said, "because the language
itself gets in the way." I laughed, she laughed, and
we ordered & ate. Writers need to laugh more and
to take a break to eat lunch, I decided that day.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Michael Cunningham on Campus

How fortunate we were to have novelist Michael Cunningham on campus this week. He was "in town" chiefly to rehearse and then perform with musicians from the Northwest Sinfonietta Orchestra, reading from his novel, The Hours, as the musicians played compositions from Schubert and others. One of the performances was on campus.

Cunningham also visited a short-fiction class I teach and was splendid, answering the students' questions with great authenticity, humor, and detail. He also divulged some wonderful behind-the-scenes information about the filming of The Hours. Of all the insights and wisdom he dispensed, the theme of persistence may have been the most important. He told the students that, yes, talent was important but that relentless, unflagging persistence was often what made the difference between a writer who achieves some of what she or he wants to achieve and a writer who stops writing--because of discouragement or other factors. He told a wonderful personal "parable of persistence" (my term, not his), but that will have to wait for a future post.

Even though by conventional standards Cunningham has "made it"--Pulitzer Prize, world-renowned novel (successfully adapted to the screen--he still goes to his small office six days a week, he reported, and writes for up to six hours. . . .

. . . .So thanks are due to Neil Birnbaum of the Northwest Sinfonietta and Keith Ward, Dean of Music on our campus, for making Cunningham's visit possible. And thanks to Michael Cunningham, too.

On Hold

On Hold

Your call is important to us even though
we arranged for a machine to answer it--
a bit of a contradiction at first glance. If
you know the extension of your party,
then extend your party. After the tone,
say either "scansion" or "reptile." I'm
sorry. I didn't hear that. Did you say
"scansion" or "reptile"? The sound of

a violin and a bass guitar you hear is
virtual. If you'd like to write lyrics
for this benumbing music, touch 3.
You'll have plenty of time to write.
Your call is important to us. This is
an example of a lie. If this is an
emergency, hang up and scream.
Otherwise, press 2. Thank you

for being so docile as to stay on hold.
Your docility is important to us. Your
call isn't important to us. That's the
truth, and you know it. And yet you
sit there, on hold. All our representatives
are busy because they called other
companies and are on hold, too.

Actually, nothing is important to us.
We're entirely automated, a form of
nihilism. Press 666. We dare you.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

No Strings Attached

(image: twine, a kind of string--in case you were wondering)

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No Strings Attached

He told her he preferred a relationship
with no strings attached. She said she preferred
strings attached. For instance, she wore an anklet
woven of string. Sometimes she kept her hair back
with a simple elastic circle of string. Her clothes
were made of threads, a kind of string, and,
she added, she preferred to keep her clothes
on at least for the immediate future. She
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said that if he and she were to take a long
walk into a relationship, she would want
to tie bits of string to branches so she'd know
the way out for sure in case they got lost.
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He said, "It's just an expression." "You mean
like 'string of words'?" she asked. "It means,"
he said, "I'm not your puppet and you're not
mine. It means 'no commitment'." She said,
"Your shoe's untied." He looked down. It
was untied! She wasn't kidding. He knelt
to tie the string of the shoe. When he arose,
he saw that she'd vanished, no strings attached.

Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Spring, Again

(image: bee, laden with pollen)








Spring, Again

Assuming the blooming occurs again,
I'll wheeze when pollen's fallen and seize
sight of bees, the hardest working nectar-
miners in show business. Spring's that thing,
that dated zing of warmth correlated to
a meaningful swing in globular orbit. Spring
sings Winter's obit. Yes, yes, bursting buds,
returning birds, etc. Renewal, Inc., roars
into town again, down again by the river,
a regular revival of survival-impulse
(hang on to your wallet). Call it
what you will, Spring's one shrewd
season, more instinct than reason,
a shout of regenerative clout. Come
on in, my big-blossomed baby. We've
been waiting for you, oh-so-long.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Pre-Existing Condition

Pre-Existing Condition

A representative from the company told him,
"We can't sell you medical insurance. You have
a pre-existing condition." He asked what his
pre-existing condition was. "Life," the rep said.
"That is, you exist. You're pre-existing. Our
records show you're alive. Are they correct?"
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"Yes," he said, "I'm alive." The rep said,
"Well, then you're at risk of becoming unwell,
so insuring you is not a good bet for us. We
prefer to insure dead people, who aren't
susceptible to illness." "How will I pay my
medical bills?" he asked. "I don't know,"
the rep said. "But if the illness is so severe
that it takes away your pre-existing condition
of life, give us a call. We value our customers."
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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Earth Day Poem

Some years ago, I returned to the site of my undergraduate education (well, part of it) and my graduate one: U.C. Davis. In the years since I'd been back, the student body had doubled, from 17,000 to over 30,000, and the physical plant had grown bewilderingly large, so much so that I got lost--at a place where I'd studied and then taught for nearly a decade: how embarrassing. You can go home again; it's just that you can't find your way around.

Finally I made it to what I considered the center of campus--the quad and the coffee house. And at that point, time had stopped. For it was Earth Day (I think we used to call it Whole Earth Day), and the booths, people, music, and atmosphere all seemed the same as they were the first time I attended the gathering. Ah, I'm back at Davis, I thought.

Dogs, frisbees, herbaceous smoke, hand-made jewelry for sale, intense but friendly arguments going on, and all sorts of music, long skirts, bare feet, scarves, wild hair, and the original Good Vibes. At the perimeter, on the bike paths, herds of bicycles went by. (The bicycle-accidents at Davis sometimes involved hundreds of people. Somehow I avoided them all.)

I think the following Earth Day poem may be irreverent, but I'm not sure. The first line certainly is.


Bet On It

Sun, you bum, if you weren't close,
you'd be just any other star, one cold
fleck on a black velvet painting. Earth,
you globular oaf, if it weren't for Sun,
you'd drop down Time's abyss like a cold
marble. Moon, you sycophant, why
don't you grow something on yourself?
Humans, you fatuous, big-brained
locusts, you're killing your home by living
in it. God, You are looking more necessary
all the time--the Back-Up Plan. Some
see you as a long shot, at best. I'm with
Pascal. I'm making the wager. It's not
a lock, but it's the smart bet, especially
as we turn the place into a sauna and strand
polar bears on ice cubes. And who would
have bet, back there in the Big Bang Bar
and Grill, that Sun, Moon, Earth, and humans
would end up just so, tensely tethered
to each other? It's all impossible, of course.
Do the math. Yet here we are. Bet on it.
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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Splendid New Chapbook from Karen Weyant

(image: cover of Stealing Dust, by Karen J. Weyant)








I just finished reading a chapbook of poetry by Karen J. Weyant, Stealing Dust. It is splendid.

The poems are firmly anchored in working-class experiences in an area of the nation routinely called "the Rust Belt," and they represent varied, nuanced elements of those experiences, including but not limited to the perspectives of working-class women. The poems are clear and accessible but deceptively complex, and one wants to return to poems multiple times. The voice is mature and unpretentious, the imagery superb, and the control of language admirable.

Several poems have irresistible titles: "The Spring of Hand-Me-Downs," "The Girl Who Carved Jesus Into Her Forearm," "Delusions of a Die Setter's Daughter," "Beauty Tips from the Girls on the 3rd Shift," and "Why Men in Factories Should Never Write Love Stories." The latter poem may well be my favorite in the book, but it has lots of competition.

Certainly my own working-class roots (albeit on the Left Coast) and a general affinity for working-class literature draw me to the book, but at the same time, this poetry succeeds on its own merits, and if you like strong, unaffected contemporary poetry, you'll enjoy this chapbook.

It is from Finishing Line Press, P.O. Box 1626, Georgetown, Kentucky 40324, and of course it's available on amazon.com as well. The ISBNs are 1-59924-397-0 and 1-59924-397-9. Buy one for yourself and for a friend (a National Poetry Month gift), and most certainly urge your local librarian to order one. Finishing Line is a well know publisher of chapbooks.

Weyant teaches writing and literature at Jamestown Community College, and she also writes a blog called "The Scrapper Poet," which is on the blog-roll to the right.

Let Him Collect His Thoughts

Thoughts Collected

He collected his thoughts, arranged them
in a heap outside on parched hard dirt.
The assembly didn't impress. It included
a rudimentary view of Spinoza's philosophy,
a reminder to buy shoes, numerous tattered
worries, sad wee handcrafted boxes of hope,
an image of a trout, one of a grasshopper
spitting brown juice, a strong opinion about
torture, and countless scraps, shards, and bits.

As expected, the pile smelled powerfully
of confusion, the odor of which is not unlike
that of mothballs. Having collected his thoughts,
he turned his back on them, went inside,
and produced more thoughts. Homo sapiens.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom