Sunday, September 24, 2017
Friday, September 22, 2017
Anti-social non-media
holds promise. It might look like
sitting alone, phoneless and thinking,
which at least allows you
to imagine a country that has unfriended
racism, faved equity, pinned
knowledge, twanked twaddle
into truth, and stopped following.
As the media are mainly
a village of the damned celebrities,
it may be wise sometimes
to reduce the status of the spectacle
to that of an evening gnat that
passes by your eyes and ears-
a momentary minor whine.
hans ostrom 2017
sitting alone, phoneless and thinking,
which at least allows you
to imagine a country that has unfriended
racism, faved equity, pinned
knowledge, twanked twaddle
into truth, and stopped following.
As the media are mainly
a village of the damned celebrities,
it may be wise sometimes
to reduce the status of the spectacle
to that of an evening gnat that
passes by your eyes and ears-
a momentary minor whine.
hans ostrom 2017
Thursday, September 21, 2017
Monachopsis
You feel you've had
to try to fit
yourself into groups
and systems
like a hand-made part
in mass-produced machinery.
You know other people
must feel this too,
except there seems to be
less friction for
most of them, more
gliding function.
You play at envying
them to pretend
to chastise yourself.
You always think
you can be better
at joining. Yeah,
you think that.
Indeed you've archived
the many instances
of your desire to fit in,
and using "indeed" in
sentences is one of them.
You assemble conscise
internal reports
that tell of irascibility
and insufficiently
feigned adherence
to the contours of authority.
That is, times when
you were a pain in the ass,
when you wouldn't
knuckle under but
could have easily.
Should have? You
ask that now!
Down there in
dark, dank storage,
you feel judged
even by the rude
shelves and weary
boxes of your making.
Don't panic. Go upstairs
where the others are.
Mind your manners
and your mannerisms.
Chat and listen. Note
the desire to be somewhere
else but do not
act on it. The gathering
will dissolve soon
enough/not soon enough:
what's the difference?
The difference is you.
hans ostrom 2017
to try to fit
yourself into groups
and systems
like a hand-made part
in mass-produced machinery.
You know other people
must feel this too,
except there seems to be
less friction for
most of them, more
gliding function.
You play at envying
them to pretend
to chastise yourself.
You always think
you can be better
at joining. Yeah,
you think that.
Indeed you've archived
the many instances
of your desire to fit in,
and using "indeed" in
sentences is one of them.
You assemble conscise
internal reports
that tell of irascibility
and insufficiently
feigned adherence
to the contours of authority.
That is, times when
you were a pain in the ass,
when you wouldn't
knuckle under but
could have easily.
Should have? You
ask that now!
Down there in
dark, dank storage,
you feel judged
even by the rude
shelves and weary
boxes of your making.
Don't panic. Go upstairs
where the others are.
Mind your manners
and your mannerisms.
Chat and listen. Note
the desire to be somewhere
else but do not
act on it. The gathering
will dissolve soon
enough/not soon enough:
what's the difference?
The difference is you.
hans ostrom 2017
Party of One
A frost has settled on her smile.
Her words are crisp and cold.
You suspect she never dances,
and that's what you've been told.
You do not want to know her,
although her ways intrigue you.
Your you would not fit hers.
Her disdain would make you blue.
Think of all the times you tried
to get along, accommodate.
They were you've learned a waste of time,
like talking to an iron gate.
Maybe in fact you've lowered
your level of sociability
and must sanguinely admit
alone's good company.
hans ostrom 2017
Her words are crisp and cold.
You suspect she never dances,
and that's what you've been told.
You do not want to know her,
although her ways intrigue you.
Your you would not fit hers.
Her disdain would make you blue.
Think of all the times you tried
to get along, accommodate.
They were you've learned a waste of time,
like talking to an iron gate.
Maybe in fact you've lowered
your level of sociability
and must sanguinely admit
alone's good company.
hans ostrom 2017
Wednesday, September 20, 2017
Nymphs
Well, that's a gnarled word. Six consonants
invite tongue, teeth, larynx, lips, and roof
of mouth to a pronunciation party. Awkward!
Now, about those wood nymphs. I've invested
much time-capital in the woods, which
are always a going concern. I earned
a nymph-sighting. You'd think so, anyway.
But, no. Just squirrels, rattlesnakes, deer . . . .
And then: nymphomaniac. That got flung
around last century. It seemed to have
expressed either male fantasies of a pulp-
fiction kind or pseudo-scientific, puritanical
indictments of women who had sex, if
they did, but that was their business,
so what the hell? One ministry
of fishing flies goes by the nymph name,
meant to mimic gnats, mosquitoes, and other
tiny hatchers. You unhook the nymph
from the caught trout, and before you release
the fish back into flow, you think you know
what that frowning face suggests:
Is this sport-fishing really necessary?
That's the problem with mythology. Sooner
or later, it disappoints everybody, among others.
hans ostrom 2017
invite tongue, teeth, larynx, lips, and roof
of mouth to a pronunciation party. Awkward!
Now, about those wood nymphs. I've invested
much time-capital in the woods, which
are always a going concern. I earned
a nymph-sighting. You'd think so, anyway.
But, no. Just squirrels, rattlesnakes, deer . . . .
And then: nymphomaniac. That got flung
around last century. It seemed to have
expressed either male fantasies of a pulp-
fiction kind or pseudo-scientific, puritanical
indictments of women who had sex, if
they did, but that was their business,
so what the hell? One ministry
of fishing flies goes by the nymph name,
meant to mimic gnats, mosquitoes, and other
tiny hatchers. You unhook the nymph
from the caught trout, and before you release
the fish back into flow, you think you know
what that frowning face suggests:
Is this sport-fishing really necessary?
That's the problem with mythology. Sooner
or later, it disappoints everybody, among others.
hans ostrom 2017
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
Monday, September 18, 2017
The Ballad of Mr. Who
A certain Mr. Who ordered
his where whated--why,
he wouldn't say.
He hired reliable whaters
trained in necessary hows,
which earned them pay.
When all the hows were done,
sad Mr. Who wished he'd kept
the whaters at bay.
Indeed he missed his otherwhere,
which his impatience had reduced
to dust of clay.
Old Who brooded about what-now.
He grew consumed with whys that led
his mind astray.
It will straggle back sometime,
somehow. Meanwhile now, Mr. Who,
he tries to pray.
hans ostrom 2017
his where whated--why,
he wouldn't say.
He hired reliable whaters
trained in necessary hows,
which earned them pay.
When all the hows were done,
sad Mr. Who wished he'd kept
the whaters at bay.
Indeed he missed his otherwhere,
which his impatience had reduced
to dust of clay.
Old Who brooded about what-now.
He grew consumed with whys that led
his mind astray.
It will straggle back sometime,
somehow. Meanwhile now, Mr. Who,
he tries to pray.
hans ostrom 2017
A Quality of Cold in September
Cold no longer subtle,
as the shifts started in September
as we finished framing a house.
Hurry, get the roof on.
Cold now in September
as I clear the garden beds,
knocking loose a few last
golden potatoes and carrots
with sunburned indigo shoulders.
It's an insistent chill. An overture
to a Winter suite. An advance-team
working for an immanent season
that bides its clime in gravitational
patterns. A shirt under
a flannel work-shirt--then and now--
soaks up sweat & cold startles
the skin when wind rouses itself.
This is a ritual annoyance
that flavors wistful weariness
when I pick up a rake or a shovel.
hans ostrom 2017
as the shifts started in September
as we finished framing a house.
Hurry, get the roof on.
Cold now in September
as I clear the garden beds,
knocking loose a few last
golden potatoes and carrots
with sunburned indigo shoulders.
It's an insistent chill. An overture
to a Winter suite. An advance-team
working for an immanent season
that bides its clime in gravitational
patterns. A shirt under
a flannel work-shirt--then and now--
soaks up sweat & cold startles
the skin when wind rouses itself.
This is a ritual annoyance
that flavors wistful weariness
when I pick up a rake or a shovel.
hans ostrom 2017
Sunday, September 17, 2017
Saturday, September 16, 2017
Friday, September 15, 2017
Concerning Me and a Concept Called You
Like you I was in space today,
moving around on what some call
Earth. The Chinese in Mandarin
call it tu, with a diacritic mark
over the u, a parenthesis lying
on its back, looking up at the sky.
Evolution means the weather
can seem calibrated perfectly
to me (and you) and me (and you)
to the weather. A peace treaty
signed by molecules. Can be
revoked at any time.
After work, I returned
to the circumstance by which
regardless of how much humans
learn, certain fundamental
mysteries will not yield,
such as what's the all about?--
this moving around on a
matter-ball that spins and tilts
and orbits and has an indigestive core
of molten stuff.
hans ostrom
moving around on what some call
Earth. The Chinese in Mandarin
call it tu, with a diacritic mark
over the u, a parenthesis lying
on its back, looking up at the sky.
Evolution means the weather
can seem calibrated perfectly
to me (and you) and me (and you)
to the weather. A peace treaty
signed by molecules. Can be
revoked at any time.
After work, I returned
to the circumstance by which
regardless of how much humans
learn, certain fundamental
mysteries will not yield,
such as what's the all about?--
this moving around on a
matter-ball that spins and tilts
and orbits and has an indigestive core
of molten stuff.
hans ostrom
Thursday, September 14, 2017
Wednesday, September 13, 2017
The Mother of All Poems
When I think about writing the mother
of all poems that is to say a big serious
poem about my mother, I think about
the poem I wrote, in Karl Shapiro's class,
about how a piano contains all notes,
all potential melodies, etc., in some kind
of ideal way. And after I read it, Shapiro
said to the class, "D.H. Lawrence wrote
a poem about a piano, but it was really
about his mother; he was in love with
her." I found the comment unhelpful,
plus suggestive of incest. Oh, well:
workshops. I also think of my mother
and her low tolerance for nonsense,
such as puppets and murderers. She
sat on the jury that convicted serial
killer Larry Lord Motherwell (ahem),
which was the name he, Frank
Eugene Caventer, gave himself,
a nom de meurtrier.
Ma wanted to make sure Motherwell
got the gas chamber, and she never forgave
the one juror who prevented that.
Anyway, I really don't feel like writing
an ambitious poem about my mother.
It seems like too much work for too
little gain, and I don't know--
Freud, Shapiro, and millions of
other people have kind of ruined
the subject for me. My mother liked
to drink Hamm's beer out of the can.
hans ostrom 2017
of all poems that is to say a big serious
poem about my mother, I think about
the poem I wrote, in Karl Shapiro's class,
about how a piano contains all notes,
all potential melodies, etc., in some kind
of ideal way. And after I read it, Shapiro
said to the class, "D.H. Lawrence wrote
a poem about a piano, but it was really
about his mother; he was in love with
her." I found the comment unhelpful,
plus suggestive of incest. Oh, well:
workshops. I also think of my mother
and her low tolerance for nonsense,
such as puppets and murderers. She
sat on the jury that convicted serial
killer Larry Lord Motherwell (ahem),
which was the name he, Frank
Eugene Caventer, gave himself,
a nom de meurtrier.
Ma wanted to make sure Motherwell
got the gas chamber, and she never forgave
the one juror who prevented that.
Anyway, I really don't feel like writing
an ambitious poem about my mother.
It seems like too much work for too
little gain, and I don't know--
Freud, Shapiro, and millions of
other people have kind of ruined
the subject for me. My mother liked
to drink Hamm's beer out of the can.
hans ostrom 2017
Crop-Burning, Kansas
Dusk, and we're moving on I-35
through Kansas. West of us, green
land dissolves into dissolving
available light. Sky flares
at the horizon. East of us,
flames razor yellow patterns
on black, burning undulating
land. In the car talking,
we weave a makeshift fabric
of family lore, wounds and
resentments, hilarities. One
of us glances ahead through
the windshield: rear lights
of cars burn hot and red
like lit cigarette tips.
Green land fades altogether.
Red sky goes pink, goes gray.
Night will arrive before Wichita
does. We're not anywhere very long.
hans ostrom 2017
through Kansas. West of us, green
land dissolves into dissolving
available light. Sky flares
at the horizon. East of us,
flames razor yellow patterns
on black, burning undulating
land. In the car talking,
we weave a makeshift fabric
of family lore, wounds and
resentments, hilarities. One
of us glances ahead through
the windshield: rear lights
of cars burn hot and red
like lit cigarette tips.
Green land fades altogether.
Red sky goes pink, goes gray.
Night will arrive before Wichita
does. We're not anywhere very long.
hans ostrom 2017
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
It's 1954 and Emmett Kelly remembers
the Hartford, Connecticut, circus fire,
1944: the big tent went up,
and people panicked like animals,
but the big cats got strangely calm.
The famous clown rushed from
the small dressing-tent in makeup,
managed more authority than a cop
because a clown's not supposed
to speak, so when he spoke,
the wild eyed customers listened.
They let him save their lives
with a frown. Back in his tent,
he said to Willie in the mirror,
"No show tonight. No show
in Clown Alley." Other clowns
entered, hysterical, said who'd lived,
who hadn't. (168 hadn't.)
"You were wonderful," they told Emmett,
who had removed half of Willie's face.
As Kelly he shrugged. "I did what I could."
Now in 1954, Madison Square Garden,
Emmett's put on half of Willie's face.
He feels weary. He tells an interviewer,
"Clowning is nothing you can study for."
hans ostrom 2017
1944: the big tent went up,
and people panicked like animals,
but the big cats got strangely calm.
The famous clown rushed from
the small dressing-tent in makeup,
managed more authority than a cop
because a clown's not supposed
to speak, so when he spoke,
the wild eyed customers listened.
They let him save their lives
with a frown. Back in his tent,
he said to Willie in the mirror,
"No show tonight. No show
in Clown Alley." Other clowns
entered, hysterical, said who'd lived,
who hadn't. (168 hadn't.)
"You were wonderful," they told Emmett,
who had removed half of Willie's face.
As Kelly he shrugged. "I did what I could."
Now in 1954, Madison Square Garden,
Emmett's put on half of Willie's face.
He feels weary. He tells an interviewer,
"Clowning is nothing you can study for."
hans ostrom 2017
Transformation: Dementia
He remembers language
but not his memory. He speaks
of what he sees. He scratches
his knees. A straggling memory
wanders by, covered with soot
from a burnt whole life.
To this memory he says hello.
Does not recall why he said
hello. Does not recall that
he said hello. He doesn't
remember scratching his knees.
He speaks. He sees. He listens
to speaking he speaks. It does
not interest him. This does:
An aroma. Of . . .?
He falls asleep in front of
what he sees. Outside of his sleep,
we speak of what we remember
of his memory using some of
the language he used to recall.
hans ostrom 2017
but not his memory. He speaks
of what he sees. He scratches
his knees. A straggling memory
wanders by, covered with soot
from a burnt whole life.
To this memory he says hello.
Does not recall why he said
hello. Does not recall that
he said hello. He doesn't
remember scratching his knees.
He speaks. He sees. He listens
to speaking he speaks. It does
not interest him. This does:
An aroma. Of . . .?
He falls asleep in front of
what he sees. Outside of his sleep,
we speak of what we remember
of his memory using some of
the language he used to recall.
hans ostrom 2017
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)