Mountain Misery and Skunk Cabbage

(image: the plant commonly known as "Mountain Misery," or
Chamaebatia Species: foliolosa)


In the High Sierra, there are at least two plants with over-powering aromas: skunk cabbage (often found in marsh-like conditions but at high altitude) and mountain misery, which seems to grow in the shade and is most drought-tolerant. These plants are serious about the way they smell. They also cause arguments. Some people, like me, like the way they smell. Other people don't. I think people from the latter group gave the plants their common (as opposed to Latin) names.


Plants, Too

Of course creatures fascinated us. Like us
they'd ended up not in Paris or Perth but
in the High Sierra--by accident; or maybe
it was a career-move; who knows? Rattlesnakes,
skinks, lizards, ouzels, kildeers, owls, potato-bugs,
scorpions, deer, periwinkles, bears, raccoons,
bobcats, cougars, water-snakes, hawks,
and company charmed us like wizards.


The plants, too, cast a magic, though, rooted,
they were easier to ignore and less dramatic.
The way milkweed actually bled milk when
snapped, every time: so cool. How skunk-cabbage
(Lysichiton americanus) and mountain misery
embraced you with their odors like a boozy,
perfumed, vivid aunt: wow. Anis-stalks tasted like
licorice. Pine-sap softened by saliva turned
into gum. Take your chances with wild berries:
elderberries, yes; inkberries, no. We climbed


pines and firs, rode them as they
bent with the wind as flexibly as
grass-blades. What was the strangest
vegetation of all? I will say the snow plant,
Sarcodes sanguinea, bereft of chlorphyll.
It was less than creature but more
than plant. One day it would simply arise
beneath a tree in snow, bright red in Winter,
broadcasting a mute allure that suggested
it might not be a part of any timely scheme.
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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Marriage-Tetrameter?

(image: two geese [I bet you guessed that], which allegedly
mate for life, although there are probably goose pre-nuptials)







My goodness, a "marriage-tetrameter" sounds like some kind of medical device. Eek.


In class the other day, a student asked whether I were a doctor. I said,"Technically, yes, as I earned a Ph.D. in English." I should pause here and explain that, in the academic world, there are those who like and want to called "Doctor," as opposed to professor or Mr. or Ms. or by their first name. Then there are those who do not want to be called Doctor. I don't know what the percentages are, nor do I know what the sociological correlatives are, but I do think it's based on something more than whim.


At any rate, I went on to say that I am not licensed to practice medicine but that, if someone on an airplane flight were to have trouble scanning a poem written in a traditional meter, the flight attendant could get on the intercom and ask, "Ladies and gentlemen, remain calm, but we have an emergency; a passenger in 24-D is having some difficulty with a 17th-century sonnet. Is there a doctor of literature on board?"


At another any rate, we have plunged into formal verse in the poetry class--meter, rhyme, traditional forms, scansion, enjambment, full rhymes, half rhymes, sprung rhythm, blank verse --the whole prosodic enchilada (a word that has two trochees, I think.)

I have great fun teaching this "unit" because I get the students writing in meter first by encourageing them not to make sense. In a way they're just writing "sound poems." Ironically, because they're concentrating just on meter, they come up with some wild, unpredictable lines--which can serve as the seed for a "real" poem. There's also a bit of groaning, of course, because some of them had a bad time with "iambic pentameter," etc., in high school.


Physician of prosody, heal thyself.

Because I'm having my students work through some prosodic exercises, I thought I should do one myself. The assignment is simply to write some modified blank verse on any subject. By "modified," I mean iambic tetrameter (8 syllables, 4 beats, with the or stresses occuring on the even-numbered syllables), unrhymed. Rather arbitrarily, I chose marriage as the topic, but really "tetrameter" is the implicit purpose of the, ahem, "poem."

No doubt I committed some "inversions" (a trochee in place of an iamb). In two places, I got too cute and split words at the end of lines, and in one place, I rhymed without intending to. In other words, it's pretty rough tetrametric road.


Tetrameter for Marriage


It seems that marriage is a kind
Of complicated puzzle that's
Constructed slowly but not solved.
One part is lust. It's there and not.
Lust is mercurial. We all
Know that. Another part is love--
I said it; there it is, plain sight--
A deep appreciation of
The other, and of what the other is
In fact, not what one wants him/her
To be. The person will be dear.
Bourgeois, the "institution?" I guess.
If you say so, though that sounds like
Pretentious babble to two ones
Who have been married, gay or straight,
Transgendered. Well, another part
Is laughter, running jokes, and irony.
It is a comedy-routine,
Is marriage. It's improved, a schtick.
I'll tell you, money helps as well--
Enough so that you have enough
To eat, to keep a place, to live.
A certain discipline's required--
No, not that kind, but if you are
Interested in that kind, you go.
Let's see. What was the topic? Oh:
A certain discipline's required,
Some self-control, especially when
Temptation cruises by, or times
Are tough. A lot of independence,
Personal space: Yes, these two help
A lot. But in the end, if mar-
Riage works, luck has to be involved.
You just keep going, laughing; work.
Link love and lust and like and laugh.
You share. You are adults, and you
Are friends. Your marriage is a puz-
Zle--that's for sure. Be sure to live
It well. It's not something to solve.
*
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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Quick Updates!

Regarding poets who paint, etc., my colleague Professor Nimura has reminded me that, yes, indeed, e.e. cummings painted as well as wrote, and she has sent along a link:

http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/a_f/cummings/paintings.htm

And another blogger (regarding "Out Here") noted that, yes, we may or may not be meant to work in relative obscurity, but it's still nice to share. Indeed. It did make me think of Dickinson, among others, however, who seemed to have an inkling that her work would be shared--except later, when she was Elsewhere. I think she might have capitalized Elsewhere, too.

(How great would it be if Dickinson returned and wrote a blog? The posts would be terse and completely original. She'd make the genre her own.)

I may have to get serious about this and develop a real list of poet/painters and painter/poets.

But not tonight. I have sleeping to do before I go more miles.

Anyway, thanks for the info/input.

Out Here

(image: gray fox)

Out Here

If you hang back like a fox, pacing

at the edge of a copse at dusk, always

reticent to enter the meadow, then you

shouldn't complain about never having

been embraced by those in the know

and the power and the glory. If you are

literally eccentric, sir or madame, you will

be stuck in circumfrantic, extra-circular

conditions. The thing is, the fox not only

loves, knows, and trusts the woods, but

the fox also likes being in the company

of few or fewer. If, like the fox, you stayed

out there, out here, then cease your pining

for the center. In fact, go back into the woods

and pursue the work you love. If few or fewer

people see it, so be it; it's still work. You're

still you. And maybe this work was what

you were meant to do.

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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Poets Who Paint, Painters Who Write

(image: painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti)

I've never had an art-lesson, and it shows. But I've been trying to paint and/or draw for decades. A few things have turned out okay, including an acrylic painting of a doe and a fawn, wherein the doe's backside faces the viewer. People seemed amused by that choice. I did some really weird facial caricatures in chalk-on-paper that make me laugh. I show them to almost no one. Then I did this big smear-paint-on-canvas thing, dominated by red, and I didn't think much of it (and still don't) and would have kept it in hiding except people with whom I live liked it enough to hang it--on the wall, I mean. This comes under the category of "go figure." I'm also an inveterate doodler, especially in meetings, and especially if I know where the meeting is heading. While I'm waiting for it to get there, I doodle, mostly faces, not faces I'm looking at, just faces.

Karl Shapiro painted a bit, I think, and so did John Betjeman. Kenneth Patchen actually made drawings to accompany his poems. I don't think they're very good, but what do I know? Blake, I guess, is the all-time champion, creating stupendous illuminations and engravings connected to his work. Dante Gabriel Rossetti painted very well and wrote very well.

So here's a shout-out to three bloggers who are poets who paint and painters who write. In some ways, blogging is a great medium for the writer/painter or painter/writer (and "painter" is kind of a place-holder for all sorts of visual art, including digital collages, photography, videography, etc.). In a weird way, the Internet is helping us loop back to medieval times, when texts were routinely illuminated and the visual & textual got on quite well. The bloggers:

http://francaldwellsnotebook.blogspot.com/ and on this one there is a link to another site with images of the blogger's paintings

http://ascribbleorasonnet.blogspot.com/

http://loosejuicyart.blogspot.com/

And here's a link to Deb Richardson's site. She does quilts and visual collages (including the Emily/Elvis one up top):

http://www.debrichardson.com/artquilts.html

Seen and Overheard

Seen and Overheard


A man walked his dog near
fir trees and spoke into a mobile
phone. He said, "How's your puppy?"
Then louder, "How's your puppy?"
Louder: "How's . . . your . . .pup-py?!"
Finally he said, "HOW'S YOUR DOG?"


This question worked. He listened
to the answer. His dog urinated on
a fir tree, lifted its nose, sampled
air. "My dog is good, too," the man
said into the phone. Then he said,
"It has been great talking to you."
*
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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

The Ambitionator

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The Ambitionator

Climb into the Ambitionator. Hear it

power up. Strap yourself in. Adjust

the goggles. On the screen, see your

dreams come true. Feel the force

of being in charge. Hear the acclaim.

Oops, time to power down. No,

I'm afraid it's just a ride. Yes,

you have to get out. No, you're

not anyone special. That's why

the ride feels so good. Yes,

you'd have to get in line again,

buy a ticket. If I were you, I'd

find a cafe, sit down, and be

obscure and you. The Ambitionator

is just a ride, my friend. You're

nobody in a carnival. I'm nobody

who works in one. This, my friend,

is the strangest ride of all, our lives.

*

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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Seeding

I'm almost two seasons off with this poem, as it chiefly concerns the seeds and seeding of Fall. However, one could argue, if one were making excuses, that Fall's payoff is about to occur. All those seeds, etc., have been biding their time, waiting for the Earth, Sun, and even the Moon to do their gravitational dance and bring on just enough sunlight, warmth, and moisture. I also allude to Darwin indirectly by mentioning Evolution, and (as I'm sure you know) it's the 150th birthday of Chuck's Origin of Species, which I read in a graduate course that was dedicated to the year 1859 in England. We red a Dickens novel and an Eliot one and lots of poetry (including Meredith's Modern Love) and essays. My particular task was to "follow" the London Times month by month in 1859--on microfilm. Oy.

The course was taught by the late Elliot Gilbert, Kipling specialist (oddly enough) but also one of the first academics to take detective literature seriously. He published a nice anthology with critical commentary with Bowling Green State University. . . .

I also mention God in the poem. I didn't ever see a particular conflict between God and Evolution, but I'm probably missing something, as usual.


Seeding


Out of the orange smoke
of California poppies materialize
thin sage-green scrolls, in which
tiny prophecies of next year's
poppies harden, darken. Lupine-
pods go black-grey, too. They bulge
and stiffen, bags of loot. Dill
supports its canopy of seeds with
spindly architecture. Hollow-boned
sparrows perch on these green, frail
stalks, gorge. They will defecate
seeds later, encasing them in
hot, effective nitrogen, part of
a plan Evolution stumbled on
way back when When didn't
exist yet. Earth backs off a bit
from Sun, tells a hemisphere
of vegetation to go to seed. A
deluge of cones, pods, hips, sacs,
fronds, and fruits surges across
one terrestrial moment in space,
predicting vegetation's recurrence
and able to deliver the goods, already
outlasting Winter yet to come.
Seeding is a vast, well organized,
ordinary miracle. Seeding is God
at God's most professional. It is a
counter-apocalypse of indetermination.
Fall concerns ferocious patience
and thinks several moves ahead.


first published in Sierra Journal 2006, Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Fallability Sonnet

I think I already posted this sonnet once, but it couldn't hurt to post it again, as even more imperfections have piled up in the meantime.

The Fallability Sonnet


My fallability has tripped me up
Again. I've fallen on the gravelly ground
Of imperfection. I would like to cut
This nonsense out, but no; my flaws have found

A way to find me even when I seem
To have evaded them successfully.
They just show up. They are a well trained team--
And venerable. Yes, some have been with me

So long, I look at them with a strange mix
Of loathing, dread, familiarity.
Of course I have some antidotal tricks
And textual guides. Spirituality

Assists. Self-admonition, too.
Regret. I sigh. But still: what's one to do?

***

Copyright Hans Ostrom 2009

Important Contacts

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Important Contacts

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Talk to the wind, the perfect listener. It

will carry your words with it gladly. Rant

your rage at fire, the perfect anger. Fire

consumes even itself. Worry with Winter,

the perfect concern, the chill-factor. It

will fold your fears into its cold clouds sadly.

Connive with the sun, which loves news

and gossip and tries to get around to visiting

with everyone at some point every day.

*

Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Punctuation Meditation

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Punctuation Meditation

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The exclamation point isn't a point. It's a line and

a point together--a verticle board photographed

in air just above a soccer ball. The period is a

point, but a point's not a period any more than

a day is an era. A dash doesn't move, so it should

change its name. "Super-comma" is a

more marketable name for the semi-colon,

especially since a period is half a colon, whereas

a semi-colon is a leaking point. What

*

does a sickle hanging above a dot have to do

with questions? When words want to pretend

they're not there, they hide between brackets,

but nobody's fooled. When they want to whisper,

they pull parentheses close like curtains, but

everybody can hear. The slash lived in obscurity

for centuries. Lots of marks did. Then came

computers. Now every squiggle and scratch

is a celebrity living in hypertext. How weird, period.

*

Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Titles of New James Bond Films

It appears as if the James Bond cinematic franchise is as permanent as the McDonalds beef, chicken, spuds, and sugar franchise. I'm not a real Bond fanatic, but I've seen most if not all the movies, and there is a certain campy, ritualistic pleasure to be had, regardless of how good or bad the films actually are. Bond films seem to come around in Winter, like a wee pretty snowstorm. So we watch.

I was pleasantly surprised by Daniel Craig's performances, but I probably shouldn't have been. Craig seems to be a talented, well trained, experienced actor. So much so that the execrable script of his second Bond film made me wince. The way I found to get through this film (what is it called--Quantum of Solace, Mountain of Lettuce?) is, for me, a well worn one: watch fine actors try to make the most of a bad script and muddled direction. So I watched Dame Judy Densch, Daniel Craig, Jeffrey Wright (from Basquiat, remember?), and Giancarlo Giannini get through as best they could, although Giannini seemed to let his boredom show occasionally.

Just in case the Bond franchise runs out of titles for the new films, I am here to help:

1. Never Say "Thunderball" Again

2. The Spy Who Spied On Me Without a Warrant

3. Golden Finger in the Eye

4. On His Majesty's Secret Elliptical Trainer

5. Dr. Maybe

6. From North Dakota, With Corn

7. A View To a Nap

8. Diamonds Are On Sale At The Mall

9. The Man With the Golden Gold

10. Octofussy

11. When Is Bond Not On Vacation?

12. M, Q, F, and U

13. Enough Already Forever Tomorrow

14. License To Snack

I do not expect to hear from Cubby Broccoli's family soon.

I Dropped Keats's Grecian Urn

Dropping Keats's Grecian Urn


I dropped Keats's Grecian Urn
on a tile floor today. Luckily
the thing existed only on paper
in the weighty anthology that
slipped from my hands. Still
the imaginary sound of ancient
pottery hitting mass-produced
tile was terrible and beautiful.
It made me feel guilty and thrilled.
I picked up the book and made
sure Keats's poem was all right.
Not a scratch.

"Beauty is Truth, and Truth,
Beauty": great phrasing, the kind
that gets a poem anthologized.
I like the sound of it, but I never
knew what it meant because it
went in a circle like a toy-train,
and a lot of truth is damned
ugly, and some beauty is an
illusion, which some people
consider to be different from truth.

--Like my opinion matters to Keats
or anyone else, though. Anyway,
the timeless urn is timelessly encased
in Keats's oft-reprinted words, which
are always awake and ready to conjure
images and thoughts. One way to make
your pottery unbreakable is to put it
in poetry. Pottery/poetry. That's one thing
I got out of the poem a long time ago.

True, in words, the pottery's less
beautiful, and it won't hold much liquid, but
you can always pick it up with your
eyes or your ears and hold it in
your mind's hands, never pay to
insure it, and not worry about dropping it.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom