In Praise of Plodding

I don't sing the praises

of plodding. I mumble them.

Praise for slow striders

and taciturn toilers.

For persons who lay gray

mortar for red bricks.

Who plow fields for

food-to-be, who teach

students who arrive 

foggy from hunger or

adolescent hormones.

Who nurse the ill, who

must listen and endure in

their jobs to the squawk, squeak,

shriek of opinions. I

celebrate ones who watch

where they're going, who

produce the correct tool

at the proper time. Who follow

facts like meandering creeks

until a decisive lake comes

into view. Humanity seems

always in need of the prepared

and careful,  the appropriately shod,

citizens scrubbed of narcissism.

Thank you, plodders. Steady on.

hans ostrom 2022

Creeks

where seas start:

springs leak & snow swoons 

under sun & soon trickles

become inklings of headwaters

off spiked hills 

spasms of water splash, crash,

& make thin loud brash nervous

streams skating over slick slate.

off peaks proper creeks

leap in white waterfalls,

smash into crescendo pools,

lounge awhile,

then amble, then race & riffle

around boulders til they fall

again            listen:

there's a jazzy rhythm 

to high country creeks,

syncopation of gurgle,

trickle, rush, splash, & knock

see shadow and sun, eddies

and pebbled edges, deep

black pools, glassy sheets

under which fish shadows dart.

carved into loamy meadows

and farmland, catfish creeks

won't be rushed (hush, now),

quietly they tread over 

fine silt floors.

desert dry creeks--

ghostly impressions,

molds of pool & streambed

asking for water. lizards

scribble graffiti on 

parched sand. but then

sky attacks one day 

&  the memory of water

comes roaring back

creeks give themselves 

over to rivers that give

themselves over to bigger

flows & who knows?

maybe the big river can't

resist a coast & runs to a 

bay, to a sea, where

all the banks of rivers vanish

& all creeks sing together.

hans ostrom 2022

Far Away Sponges

Under Antarctic ice,

portly white sponges 

filter frozen secrets.

Fifteen thousand years

old, they look like huge

flabby white jars.

Like bears and us,

they are omnivorous.

Landlords of a sort,

they host crustaceans

and worms and never

charge rent or evict.

Generous, they donate

bits of themselves 

to feed sea stars.

Like soft boulders

or plump packages of time

mailed from the moon,

they fluctuate forever.

Some call all them giant 

volcano sponges, others

Anoxycalyx joubini:

mere syllables, bubbles

bursting in viscous salt

currents. It's said you can

dive down and see them. 

Please don't. A few photos

suffice, and their niche is

in no need of us. For sponges

are sisters of all other animals. 

hans ostrom

And All the Ships at Sea

Ships groan. Moan. Even shimmering

yachts know, deep in their blueprints,

they shouldn't be at sea. Commerce

and war disagree. The sea is ours!

they cry--like drunken sailors

on shore leave or rabid dictators

with shrinking brains. Ships

at permanent anchor--mothballed:

uncommanded, they slightly sway,

serene in their bay. At night, 

ghosts howl in bones of the hulls,

conjuring nightmares of reefs,

hurricanes, missiles, and mad captains. 

hans ostrom 2022

Arguments

Gritty wind argues

with trees. New green

leaves laugh back.

A black headland
refutes a pounding sea,
which relents, then rides

again at midnight,
pale wave-tips glowing
in moonlight. We fight

with our home the planet.
If we win, we lose.

hans ostrom 2022

The Wisdom Tree

I went to find 

the Wisdom Tree.

Someone had 

chopped it down--

and all the trees

around it, down, down. 

hans ostrom 2022

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.