Politics Comes to Taksim Square

My wife and I have been visiting Turkey for over a week, staying mostly in Istanbul. Yesterday we visited Taksim square, at the heart of a modernized, upscale section of Istanbul, across the Bosphorous from Sultanhamet, the most famous part of the city where Hagia Sophia, the Topkapi Palace, the Sultanhamet ("Blue") Mosque, and numerous other sites are located.

This morning Taksim Square is at the heart of an international controversy. Last night, Israeli troops boarded one of the ships attempting to deliver humanitarian aid to Gaza. That ship was Turkish, and 15 of those on board were killed. Protests erupted outside the Israeli embassy near Taksim Square, and some protesters surged over the fence.

Turkey and Israel have had good diplomatic relations, but these events, as well as Turkey's involvement in a nuclear-fuel deal with Iran and Brazil, have strained the relationship immeasurably.

Complicating the present crisis are the questions of whether Israel is, according to international law, an "occupying force" in Gaza, where international law permits delivery of humanitarian aid (some ships have been let through during past deliveries), and precisely happened on the ship after Israeli soldiers boarded it.

It's been enlightening to watch BBC-Europe, as the interviewer grills spokespersons from Israel and the humanitarian group with equal ferocity. He is polite but firm, well informed, and relentless--intolerant of canned answers.

Ironically, we strolled down Isticlal Street, which angles off Taksim Square, yesterday, a wide promenade lined with shops, apartments and embassies. (The Israeli Embassy is in a high-rise nearby). The promenade was the picture of serenity, as Turks and visitors from every part of the globe enjoyed the stroll. We counted 5 Starbucks cafes along the promenade--as well as the same number of Gloria Jean's Coffee storefronts: two franchises in peaceful conflict. In an instant, Taksim Square, the venerable Isticlal Street, and embassy row have been drawn into international political conflict.

The Nature of Istanbul

I've been in Istanbul for a while, and it is, of course, a great city--addictive, in a way, like Venice.

We all have our coping-mechanisms when traveling, I assume; one of mine is to focus on the trees, plants, and birds of a place because one is bound to make familiar sightings, and one is reminded in general that this is, in fact, a small planet.

It is said the Prophet Muhammad strongly discouraged the destruction of trees, and what a sensible viewpoint. Perhaps the Prophet's views on this matter have affected the extent to which Istanbul is full of trees, and most especially in our hotel's neighborhood, which is old and working class--not that far from the seaside on the sharp slope down from Hagia Sophia.

In any case, I've seen in Istanbul so far sycamore, olive, fig, beech, oak, pine [a short species, not completely dissimilar to the scrub pine of the Sierra Nevada foothills], fir, maple, ash, locust, eucalyptus, and many species I don't recognize.

Some of the grasses and shrubs (boxwood) look familiar, and there seems to be a thistle that's similar to the star thistle. There is a low-lying flowering thing I mistook for red clover, but it's certainly not red clover. I'll have to look it up.

Grape vines grow everywhere in neighborhoods, as do fig trees: wonderful.

As for the birds, they are endlessly fascinating, especially in the morning and at dusk. There are swallows--which particular species, I dare not guess, but they dive and glide and feed on insects like the tree swallows I remember from the Sierra Nevada, and they have those great bladed wings.

The crows here are two-toned, with a gray chest and a gray cape: splendid. A wide variety of pigeons and doves and gulls. Starlings. There's a medium-sized, gray-black bird that chugs through the air; it looks like what I'd call a cowbird, but I'm sure it's not that. There are also sparrows that nest in buildings (including those of the Sultan's palace) and storks. The stork legend in Turkey is that if you see a stork flying, you will be traveling a lot. I saw a stork flying when we drove to Ephesus, so I guess I'll be traveling more.

In the small city near Ephesus, while we were having lunch, I looked outside and saw what seemed to be a crows nest--a massive construction of thick twigs. But a white head arose. It was a stork--a stork's nest. How cool is that?

Cats in Istanbul are ubiquitous and often heart-breaking: underfed, aged too quickly. The main reason for their presence, I think, is that Istanbul would be over-run with rats if the cats weren't around. There are more cats here than ever I saw in Rome.


Istanbul: The Imperial City

Istanbul Evening

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Istanbul Evening

A white, four-masted yacht slips between
dingy barges and trawlers, disappears into
a blue haze on the Sea of Marmara. The call
to prayer's an hour away. Swallows dive
and glide, pigeons prowl, and the sun's
about to settle down.

Below the terrace, lush maples and oaks
sigh and sway, leaning west. Sounds of traffic,
children, and work never cease. Near a mosque's
minaret on the hill, a faded Turkish flag
flutters in slow motion. Now a seagull appears.

It glides in a wide arc, which now becomes
a large invisible circle. The glide traces
ever smaller concentric circles against
the backdrop of the sea until the gull
lands precisely at the point of a rooftop
below the terrace. The gull stands
authoritatively, facing a low sun, and
something in the scene says all is well

even when it isn't. 

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

A Turkish Poet's Varied Background

Here's a link to a article about/interview with a contemporary Turkish poet named Lale Müldür:

Müldür

Index of African Writers and Writing

An  Index of sources about African Writers and Writing:

African American Writers--Cornell Library

NATURAL HABITAT, by Michelle Reale

Natural Habitats, a collection of a dozen stories by Michelle Reale, has just been published by Burning River Press. Here is a link to an interview with the author:

Interview with Reale

FULL MOON AT NOONTIDE, by Ann Putnam

In the last post, I mentioned a fine new novel I'd read, and now I'd like to mention one of the best memoirs I've read in a long time, Full Moon at Noontide: A Daughter's Last Goodbye, by Ann Putnam. It's the story of identical twins, Ann's father and his brother; of their journey through life; and of their journey toward death. They almost simultaneously in the same hospital, with Ann caring for them both (the uncle was a bachelor). While Ann was finishing the book, her husband died of cancer. There's enough tragedy in the circumstances for three books, but the memoir is full of hard-earned joy, hope, and humor that lift Ann's experiences and the reader's response to them out of despair and into understanding.

The book is published by Southern Methodist University Press. Superbly written; a great read.

Full Moon at Noontide: A Daughter's Last Goodbye (MEDICAL HUMANITIES SERIES)

SNAKETOWN, by Kathleen Wakefield

I just finished reading SNAKETOWN (2010) by Kathleen Wakefield, and it’s one of the best contemporary American novels I’ve read in a long time. As fresh as its language and structure is, the book has qualities of medieval literature inasmuch as it confronts questions of evil, character, fate, and redemption unabashedly.

Set in a Southwestern mining town, the novel re-imagines the region with language and images that are at once lyrical and primal, mythic and immediate. The mountains, the mine, the valley, the town, and the key family never become fantastical, but they take on an aura that’s just surreal enough to lift the regional to the universal, as happens in the work of Morrison, Marquez, and Faulkner. Indeed, the hard-scrabble, insulated Sibel family sometimes seems distantly related to Faulkner’s Snopes clan but is more wretched. The novel opens with a note of doom and builds toward a dark symphony.

SNAKETOWN is an ambitious but unpretentious meditation on evil—how it arises, is cultivated, and overwhelms. Wakefield renders the tale in brief, carefully sculpted chapters. The character Orin Sibel, among others, is unforgettable.

SNAKETOWN won the Ruthanne Wiley Memorial Novella Contest and is published in paperback by the Cleveland State University Poetry Center. Wakefield is a lyricist as well as a fiction writer, working in television and film with Vangelis, Michel Colombier, and other composers.

Snaketown

Highly Qualified

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Highly Qualified


The lambs are qualified to be young.
We believe we're qualified to choose them
as symbols, food, and future wool.
God is not at the top of the great chain
of being, command, or corporate
personhood. God is, to say the lamby least,
beyond all that. The pasture belongs to us,
in our view. Our view carries a lot of weight
around here. A continent of clouds

advances over mountains toward our
real estate. The storm is not personal or
apocalyptic, but it does not necessarily
agree with us, and it is highly qualified.

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Bill Murray Ruins a Dickinson Poem

Lord knows why someone asked Bill Murray to read an Emily Dickinson poem--"I dwell in possibility"--to workers building a Poet's House in Manhattan.  Occasionally his diffident, smart-ass persona lands like a cow-pie on a girder, and this was one of those times:

Murray "Reading" Dickinson

A lot of dynamics here: male Hollywood celebrity in front of male workers; actor not knowing what Dickinson's poetry is; bad idea to have him read; etc.; he thinks he's beneath the task.

So his decision was to read it like a 5th grader who's never seen poetry before, pushing a half-rhyme to be a full-rhyme as if he just discovered Dickinson uses half-rhymes.

Why?

And why not select a poem by Langston Hughes, Jim Daniels, or Philip Levine (among many others) that would have riveted, so to speak, the workers?

What I'm Reading

In case anyone asks, I'm reading lots of students' essays and short stories right now.  The end of the semester, and all that.

However, I'm also reading The Idiot, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, which I had not read before: shame on me.  I guess one good thing about waiting is that this relatively new translation is supposed to be miles better than earlier ones.  Another book I'm reading is The Vikings, by Robert Ferguson, which relies in part on recent archaeological discoveries--as late as 2001.

The Vikings: A History, by Robert Ferguson

The Idiot, , translated by Pevear and Volokhonsky (Vintage)

Sam Waterston Reads Poetry

Sad news today: NBC is canceling the long-running and, for some of us, highly addictive Law and Order.  The tightly controlled form of the show, accompanied by those "beats," reminded of a sonnet, transposed to the one-hour [@40 minutes] TV-drama genre.  Great work, Dick Wolf.  (With a tip of the cap to the late Raymond Burr, I must mention that Perry Mason had a similar crime-first, trial-second form.)

Sam Waterston, who acted on the show for a long time, reads poetry on the CD accompanying John Lithgow's anthology, Poets' Corner.

The Poets' Corner (An Unabridged Production)[6-CD Set]; The One-and-Only Poetry Book for the Whole Family

New Law Keeps Texas Profs Under Surveillance

From another blog to which I contribute:

Texas Profs


Anti-Intellectualism in American Life, by Richard Hofstadter

Red Scare!: Right-Wing Hysteria Fifties Fanaticism and Their Legacy in Texas, by Don E. Carleton

Larkin on May

I was poking around for a poem by Philip Larkin about spring, and I found this one a site called sundeepdougal:

The Trees


by Philip Larkin


The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.


Is it that they are born again
And we grow old ? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new

Is written down in rings of grain.


Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Copyright Estate of Philip Larkin

Wow, much to like in this poem, including the terrific fourth line, "Their green is a kind of grief," and the image, "the unresting castles thresh/In fullgrown thickness . . ."

Philip Larkin: Collected Poems

Poet Publishes Novel

Hey, I published a novel. It's called Honoring Juanita, and it's a contemporary novel set in the High Sierra, where I grew up, so to that extent I wrote about what I ostensibly know.  It does have an historical subplot based on the notorious lynching of a woman named Juanita during the Gold Rush.

Anyway, here's a link, but not a sales-pitch, mind you (you have more important things to spend $ on), although if you were to mention the book to your local librarian, I wouldn't mount a huge protest:

Honoring Juanita

The brief official  recap of the novel is . . ."The global scramble for energy has made a river in California's High Sierra ripe for damming. Mary Bluestone, woodcarver and longtime resident of a remote mountain town, impulsively puts herself between the river and the dam, becoming a protester in spite of herself. Mary's husband, the county sheriff, must arrest her. A flood of unintended consequences ensues as the 21st century invades a pristine canyon. Meanwhile, Mary Bluestone is haunted by the legend of Juanita, a woman lynched during the Gold Rush Era. Honoring Juanita is a tale of entangled histories and divided loyalties, of greed, power, memory, and love."

This is the second novel I've published and, if memory serves, the 6th I've written.

With all genres, writers learn to write in them by writing in them, but I think with poetry, short fiction, and occasional essays (or creative nonfiction), I think it's easier to find ways to learn things efficiently, through reading about the genre, taking classes, etc.  Of course, one may read a lot of novels, and one should do so, but for me, at least, it's harder to extract the structure and method of a novel from a novel than to extract same from a poem.

Probably this means what I already know: I'm a poet first, an essayist second, a short-fiction writer third, and a novelist  fourth. Writing novels doesn't come easily to me.  All the more reason why I've had fun making lots of mistakes writing them. I now know many things NOT to do when writing a novel.

I teach both the writing of (short) fiction and of poetry, and occasionally I'll run into a student is is more or less a "pure" poet, and she or he and I usually end up commiserating about just how many words it takes to finish a story, let alone a novel.  And with novels, you have to manage people, move them around, remember their birthdays, know something about their extended families.  I tell you, it's exhausting work! But pure novelists like Tolstoy, Dickens, Faulkner, and Morrison didn't/don't feel that way, I suspect.

Three of my favorite poets--Randall Jarrell, Karl Shapiro, and Richard Hugo--published exactly one novel each.  I think I know why.  It's because they were, well, you know, poets. Read Faulkner's or Hemingway's poetry, and you'll see how this genre-preference thing works in the other direction.

The biggest thrill out of publishing this novel was that I got to dedicate it to my two brothers, Ike and Sven.

Anne Spencer, Poet and Gardener

Here's a link to a terrific recent article on Harlem Renaissance poet Anne Spencer, who was born in New Jersey but spent most of her life in Lynchburg, Virginia, where she tended a garden, which is the focus of the article.

Half My World, the Garden of Anne Spencer, a History and Guide

Garden-Gadget Additions

I'm a happy gardener today because I got a rain-barrel installed and two compost-barrels delivered.

The rain-barrel has an automatic overflow, a faucet at the bottom, and a screen up top.  The compost barrels are great because you just bury the bottom of them in dirt and worms come in; also, they have lids with screw-down seals, so there's no trouble with raccoons, possums, or rodents.

So now I can water the garden using the rain-barrel--after it rains.  Today, of course, it is sunny.

Dan Borba, the fellow I got the materials from, has been in the harvesting-of-rain business since 1999 (in Tacoma).  Here's a link:

harvesting rain

Seattle Signs

In Seattle yesterday I was amused and/or perplexed by several commercial signs.

 One read, "Organic To Go."  This one intrigued me because an adjective is offered as something one may take "to go," but where is the noun?  Organic what?  Maybe it's just the concept, "Organic."  "What size would you like on that concept, sir?"  "Uh, make that a medium."

Another sign read, "Coming Soon: Sullivan's Steakhouse."  I felt like responding, "Is this really necessary?"  I have nothing against steakhouses or Sullivan's Steakhouse (which I do not know), but there just seem to be so many steakhouses.   Also, I was wondering about the word, "steakhouse."  We don't really have fish-houses or salad-houses.  A chickenhouse would make us think of a coop, probably.  But steaks are served in a house.  "Coming soon: Ed's Steak-Garage."

Let's see--and then there was "Floral Masters," which sounds like an academic degree.  Or like a strange combination of flowers and martial arts.   Or maybe it brings to mind people who have mastery over flowers--bossing them around. "Yo, rose, a little brighter on the color, dude!"

Then in Starbucks there was a written-in-chalk sign for cups of coffee made individually, and one of them was "New Guinea Peaberry"--for $3.85 a cup.  Wow.  And is the beverage made from roasted coffee berries (beans) or from peaberries, in which case one would be drinking a cup of pea, which is not appealing.  But--$3.85?  For one cup?  I mean--really?

Housman: Politically Conservative

On another blog, I just posted something about A.E. Housman's being politically conservative, and I quote a humorous paragraph from an article on Housman:

Housman/conservative

And apparently Housman's Tories will be back in power soon in England, at least according to an article I read in the Economist this weekend.

Nikki Giovanni to Donate Copyrights to Virginia Tech

Thanks to fellow blogger and poet, Poefrika, I've learned that writer and professor Nikki Giovanni will bequeath copyrights to her work to Virginia Tech University, where she teaches.  Here's a link:

Poefrika/Giovanni


Bicycles: Love Poems, by Nikki Giovanni

A Fine Poem About Auden

Below is a link to a fine poem about W.H. Auden, one of my favorite poets; it was written by Australian poet Peter Nicholson, who also posts on the blog 3 Quarks Daily.

on Auden

This Thin Mist

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This Thin Mist


This thin mist, less than rain,
more than fog, enchants evening.
It turns trees into impressioned,
faded, murky shapes. It blesses
gardens, grasses, weeds, and trees.
Makes streets and metal glisten.
This thin mist is weather whispering
in between storms. It's just water,
sure, but it feels like reconciliation.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

New Johnny Cash Video

A correspondent from California alerted me to the new Johnny Cash video (produced by Rick Rubin and John Carter Cash), based on one of Cash's last recordings, "Ain't No Grave Can Hold Me."

Cash Video


The Man Comes Around: The Spiritual Journey of Johnny Cash

In Place of Grandparents

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In Place of Grandparents


Through circumstances--an efficient, two-word
explanation--I had grandparents but knew none
of them. Two were dead before I lived; the
two living were near enough but not to be
encountered.  Like most children, I probably
could have benefited from that mild antidote
to parents--the grandparent.  In place of it,

I got some stories--what the dead ones had
been like, what filial fractures had made
the lives ones off-limits.  Narratives became
my grandparents: unusual, sure; not horrible.

I came to know of treacheries and betrayals,
primal scenes, the weather of resentment.
The stories of other people become key parts
of our own lives. That sounds something like
a grandparent might say.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Malthus Called

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Malthus Called


Malthus called today to say,
"I told you so."  Too much us,
not enough planet.  It doesn't
tale an algorithm to figure that.

I do such statistically insignificant
things as plant trees and direct
carbon dioxide their way. "This
way to the trees," I say to air.

I sealed the abode tightly
and now use those light-bulbs that
just sip electricity. None of this
will help, according to the message

left by Malthus. Theoretical doom
is no reason to give up. I called
Malthus back to tell him this, but
he was gone, back to the past.

Cardinal Newman answered
from the past instead. He asked,
"Have you tried prayer?" "Yes," I
said, "and it looks like a tree."

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

An Essay on the Principle of Population

Strange Time

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Strange Time


When I arrived at that place, words
and actions let me know I wasn't quite
what they wanted, had expected. Yes,
I'd been invited: a technicality.  I spent

some time at the party's edge. I was
following a line of exclusionary logic:
If unwanted, behave peripherally
and keep close watch on arbiters.

Later I moved toward the center,
began to perform so as to prove
they should indeed desire my presence.
You know how that sort of thing

goes. I went from ignored to resented.
Outside finally in night air alone, I told
another departing guest, "I had a
strange time in there. I'm glad I'm out."

"You're not alone," she said to
me, adding, "and by that of
course I mean you are alone.
Good night."  "Good night," I said.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Sounds Today

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Sounds Today


On the street, a man bounces a basketball.
The sound's not different from that of chopping
wood. It stops when he shoots the ball at a
hoop. The sound from this is something
like a dull bell in fog.  The man shouts--
he sounds like a seal. A car goes by

in a slow rush, air displaced largely.
The car's sound-system thumps--that
speakered pulse all of us are used to now.
The city's sounds fill in an audio backdrop.
That wood-chopping, basket-ball-on-
pavement sound continues. The man
is frenzied because the sun's out and

Winter's been so long this year. He's
furiously glad, pounds that gray pavement
with his orange, hand-held planet.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Only Dreaming

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Only Dreaming


In this wet city under gray today,
you'll sense how hard and wearily
so many people work. Could be
you'll grieve for grinding toil
demanded and surrendered. Or
maybe you won't have time to
feel much because you're working.

Later you'll get across the city
somehow as gray becomes night.
Inside where you live, you'll note
again how much you and your clothes
smell of the work you do. Now other
tasks await: to cook, to listen,
to worry, to count, to try to rest.
Only dreaming will seem effortless,
but that's dreaming, which is nothing.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Salvage Yard

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Salvage Yard

When I pass a salvage yard, everything
in it's dear  because it's something
crumpled, because it used to be
something designed and functional. Each
piece took some work to make and worked
for a while.  The yard as a whole presents
gnarled pyramids of contorted metal,
smeared rust, and broken tonnage.

I couldn't operate a salvage yard
because I'd want to keep the junk.
The yard's a tomb without a pharaoh,
an installation without a gallery. It's
a steel opera, a metal consequence,
a there. Flattened Cadillacs, pretzeled
I-beams, broken bridges, arrested
scrap: reusable, yes, bound for
a furnace hell. And beautiful--heaped
indiscriminately in mud.

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Salvage Yard Treasures of America

Two Poems By President Obama

Here is a link to two poems written by President Obama and published in 1981 in the Occidental College literary magainze:


Poems by Obama

The first one, about a father, reminds me a bit of Theodore Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz."

All Politicians Wear Makeup

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All Politicians Wear Make-Up


All politicians wear makeup because
cameras are their constituents. Actors
attempt politics because celebrity
has made them rulers of feudal
entourages. Pastors become actors
because they don't have faith that God
will fill the seats. Atheists become pastors
because they want to share the empty news.
Journalists become atheists because they
report on hell and no one seems especially
alarmed. Citizens become journalists
because journalism collapsed. Wisdom
becomes rare because so few seem
to have the patience for it. Information
replaces it.  People inhale fumes
of information, get high, gaze at their
screens, see politicians, all politicians
wearing makeup.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Cosmetics: Webster's Timeline History, 2007

Extra-Time

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Extra-Time

I know there's no next time, each time
being one time and one life, one life.
So the thing is to work up an extra-time:
one as-if, a single could-be, or a solitary
the-way-it-was.  Walk in summer
up to that old barn with its baked,
rough-milled, untreated boards that
smell so great and watch black
carpenter-bees fly into, out of, holes
that just fit their bodies, and feel the body,
yours, taut, and look and breathe
that one time as someone puts a glass jar
over a bee-hole, and the next bee out
knocks itself silly against glass but
recovers, and a Ford that isn't old
passes by--sound of radio from an open
window, sound of a busted, snarling
muffler.  And there, see, are tall green
weeds and sweet-pea vines. In comes
fresh air, just as easy as that, and in
your right front pocket is a folding
knife with traces of trout-guts on
its blade, fine dust, a small
piece of quartz, and coins--
the currency of this extra-time,
this one-time borrowed back.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom


The Carpenter Bee

President of the EU Writes Haiku

Herman Van Rompuy, from Belgium, is the President of the European Union, and he's just published a collection of haiku.

Here is a link to an article from Reuters online about Van Rompuy and the book.

New Book On Creative Writing

British writer and professor Graeme Harper has just published a new book about creative writing, aptly titled On Creative Writing.  A link:


On Creative Writing

Rae Armantrout Wins 2010 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry

Here is a link to an article about Rae Armantrout's having won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize in poetry:

Pulitzer

And a link to the book:


Versed (Wesleyan Poetry)

Recommended Writer: Wendy Perriam

Not long ago I read a novel by Wendy Perriam, Coupling.  It's terrific--one of those relatively rare fine novels about contemporary romance, sex, and love.  The book reminded me of D.H. Lawrence's writing--with the crucial addition of subtlety, and with the addition of a more complex understanding of how people behave.  There is more than a little humor as well, and the protagonist is someone you're glad to follow through a narrative.  In a sense Perriam takes the venerable sub-genre of "novel of manners" and applies it deftly to our times.

Perriam is a British author of 14 novels and several short-story collections:  She's also a professor.

Here is a link to her site:

Wendy Perriam

And here is a link to an article about her, her writing, a short story collection, and her experience with an awful personal loss:

Article on Perriam

And a link to Coupling (although there is a paperback edition as well):

Coupling

A Writer of Parables

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A Writer of Parables


Once there was a writer of parables
who aimed to treat his readers'
maladies with narrative caplets
of wisdom. Almost no one read
his parables, for almost no one
read, and those who did read
had many reading choices. The few
who read his parables didn't know
the parables were meant instructively
to heal. They liked the parables,
however, because they were short
and crisp like chopped stalks
of celery. There was the parable
of the blind fashion-photographer;
of the return of the responsible
daughter; of the man who would play
only a rented harp; and so on.
Finally the writer of parables wrote
himself into a parable. He dissolved
into a little bit of his own home-made
wisdom and entered the bloodstream
of culture, completely absorbed.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

New Book By Robert Sheppard

Here is a link to a new book by British poet Robert Sheppard, Warrant Error.

New Book By Stephen Bess

Here's a link to a new book by Stephen Bess, Liquid Lunch: Blues-Inspired Poems; Bess lives in Washington D.C.

Barker's Sonnet to His Mother

When I began to study poetry as an undergraduate, one of the first poems I encountered was George Barker's sonnet, "To My Mother."  Here 'tis:


To My Mother

by George Barker

Most near, most dear, most loved, and most far,
Under the huge window where I often found her
Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter,
Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand,
Irresistible as Rabelais but most tender for
The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,—
She is a procession no one can follow after
But be like a little dog following a brass band.

She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend
To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar,
But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain
Whom only faith can move, and so I send
O all her faith and all my love to tell her
That she will move from mourning into morning.

Among My Favorites: Philip Larkin

British poet and librarian Philip Larkin's work is among my favorite.  He possessed a distinctive lyric gift, a sometimes droll, sometimes bleak view of modern life, the city, urban isolation, and a considerable sense of humor.  Probably his most famous poem is "This Be The Verse," which can probably be found online (I haven't looked).  As with Dickinson, it's difficult to pick favorites, but "High Windows" and "Home Is So Sad" certainly stand out.  The best thing to do is to rummage through is collected poems, though.  A link to that book:


Collected Poems, by Philip Larkin

And a link to the Philip Larkin Society::

http://www.philiplarkin.com/

Among My Favorites: Alan Dugan

Alan Dugan (1923-2003) remains one of my favorite poets.  His work earned him a Yale Younger Poet award and a Pulitzer Prize.  His poems tend to be quick and terse--bursts of direct first-person utterance; they're very smart but also accessible.  One of my favorites by him is "Love Song: I and Thou," which in part concerns trying to build a new house.  There is also a poem about an new bridge that is actually an old bridge.

Dugan titled his books simply Poems, Poems 2, Poems 3, and so on--up to 7, which is a collected poems edition.

A link to more information about Dugan.

Among My Favorites: James Cervantes

. . . And in another National Poetry Month episode of "Among My Favorites," I'll note  that James Cervantes, professor and poet, is among my favorites.  Here is a link to his site, which includes some terrific poems:

James Cervantes

And here is a link to a book:

Temporary Meaning: Poems, by James Cerantes

Among My Favorites: Jim Daniels

Among my favorite poets is Jim Daniels, an especially gifted narrative poet, and one whose work often focuses on the lives of working-class people and folks on the street.  He teaches at Carnegie Mellon University. His books include the following (and one may find a handful of poems online):

Revolt of the Crash-Test Dummies: Poems

In Line for the Exterminator: Poems (Great Lakes Books Series)

Night With Drive-By Shooting Stars (New Issues Poetry & Prose)

STREET: Poems by Jim Daniels, Photographs by Charlee Brodsky (Working Lives)

Visual Poetry

A link to an essay by Geof Huth about visual poetry (on the Poetry Foundation site):

Visual Poetry

And a link to a book:

Modern Visual Poetry

Poets and Disability

Broadening my search for poets and poetry during National Poetry Month, I found some interesting links concerning the subject of disability and poets.

Here's is a link to an essay by Jillian Weise concerning disabled poets; the essay acknowledges legitimate questions about such terms, concepts, and identities as "disabled poet," "poet with a disability," "'crip' poetry," and so on, and it spends time on the work of Josephine Miles and Louise Gluck.(I saw/heard Josephine Miles read at U.C. Davis once.)

Here is a link to a site for disabled poets, although the site seems not to have been updated since 2005.

Here is a link to a site called nonsite collective and a discussion of "poetics and disablement."

And finally here's a link to a poem by Wilfred Owen I had not seen before; it's titled simply "Disabled" and concerns a former soldier (in World War I, of course).

Among My Favorites: Randall Jarrell

During National Poetry Month, I though I'd mention some of my favorite poets from time to time--in no particular order.  Randall Jarrell remains one of my favorites.  He wrote chiefly in free verse, and he often wrote dramatic monologues.  No doubt his most famous poem is "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner," a brief, uncanny, seemingly perfect poem.  I also like "Next Day," "The Woman at the Washington Zoo," and "90 North," among others.  Jarrell was also a well known--and somewhat feared--critic of poetry.  After he had reviewed one of Karl Shapiro's books, Shapiro wrote that he felt "run over but not injured" (my paraphrase) by the review.


Here's a link to more information about Jarrell.

And some links to books by and about him:

The Complete Poems

Poetry and the Age

The Bat-Poet

Remembering Randall: A Memoir of Poet, Critic, and Teacher Randall Jarrell

A Sad Heart at the Supermarket: Essays and Fables

National Poetry Month

It's National Poetry Month once more, at least in the U.S. Here's a link to what Poets.org is offering in connection with NPM:

Poets.org

Gold

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Gold

Gold is many things because we've made it so.
Heavy's the main thing it is, though.
If you'd find it by the river then,
the main imperative is to get low.

Find bedrock, which is the top
of something semi-permanent
that the river hasn't yet moved.
Find holes and crevices. Stop.

Get to the bottom of them. If
there's gold, there's where the gold
will be, along with lead, black sand,
and such. You won't hold it in your hand

'til after you've rinsed away what's
lighter in your pan, and even then
you may get only flecks. This has
never gone without saying: there

will never be enough of gold to
satisfy or even feed you because
whatever forces made gold,
made it rare. Gold's not fair.

It is of another scheme, a geologic
farce in which stars spit planets
like sunflower seeds and infinity
isn't amused. Lord knows gold glows--

but dully. It rarely shines. It hates
to move, wants to be left alone. It's
soft, hard to get, harder to hold. Sometimes
it's welded in a vein to quartz. We call that ore.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

George Herbert's "Easter"

One of the most famous poems by George Herbert (1593-1633) is "Easter."  I admire the vocabulary and rhyming in the poem, among other things.

Easter

by George Herbert

    RISE heart ;  thy Lord is risen.  Sing his praise
                                        Without delayes,
    Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
                                        With him mayst rise :
    That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
    His life may make thee gold, and much more just.

    Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
                                        With all thy art.
    The crosse taught all wood to resound his name
                                        Who bore the same.
    His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
    Is best to celebrate this most high day.

    Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song
                                        Pleasant and long :
    Or since all music is but three parts vied,
                                        And multiplied ;
    O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
    And make up our defects with his sweet art.

I got me flowers to straw thy way ;
 I got me boughs off many a tree :
 But thou wast up by break of day,
 And brought’st thy sweets along with thee.

The Sunne arising in the East,

 Though he give light, and th’ East perfume ;

 If they should offer to contest

 With thy arising   they presume.

  Can there be any day but this,
  Though many sunnes to shine endeavour ?
  We count three hundred, but we misse :
  There is but one, and that one ever.

The Complete English Poems (Penguin Classics), George Herbert

Tom Meschery's Poem About Charlie Rose

From the Oregon Lit. Review site, here is a poem by Tom Meschery, former National Basketball Association player and current published poet, about PBS talk-show host Charlie Rose--and other topics:

The Charlie Rose Show

The way he says “young men” sounds dangerous,

so I stop channel surfing and listen:  Charlie

leaning forward, hand on his chin, asking

some old guy, what his book’s about

and the old dude answering:  among humans

and in the animal kingdom as well,

young males cause trouble.  Nature intends it,

and we’re just now starting the long path

of remembrance, how they make us feel—

meaning mostly older males—threatened

and anxious.  A generational battle,

so to speak, which, from the point of view

of young men, makes all the sense

in the world according to Charlie’s guest,

author of The Decline of Males;

as in the case of some species in the world

and even in captivity, one or two

knock down, drag-outs with dad,

and the winner takes the prize:  females

and family felicity.  Which can’t, Charlie argues,

be analogous to today’s young men,

meaning the sons of his generation,

the baby boomers, to their random violence

Woodstock ‘99 being a case in point.

And I’m thinking Charlie Rose seems

a little ruptured, evoking images

from Clockwork Orange and Lord of the Flies—

boys prancing naked around fires,

pig’s head on a stick, Paleolithic shadows.

So I ask my friend watching the show

with me “How does Charlie get off

being that fucking self righteous?”

But my friend points to the full moon

outside the window, smiles, and points

to the one rising over my belly button

just below the three green eagles flying

across my chest.  “Is that it, dude?” I ask

as Charlie Rose praises his guest for shedding

some light on such a difficult subject.

“Is that it?” and suddenly I feel better

knowing I’ve been given a license

to get back to the natural order of things;

say, if my old man gives me trouble,

which I’m telling my friend he did, last night

and in spades, I can simply arm wrestle

him into submission.  At least, that’s how

I’m seeing it, my eyes opening onto wide screens:

retreating glaciers, savannahs, jungles of primates,

tribes of hunters and gatherers, competing

for each bone of meat and feeling fine about it,

feeling just fine because God made us

this way, in his image—fathers and sons.

 Copyright Tom Meschery

A  link to one of Meschery's books:

Nothing We Lose Can Be Replaced

Fashion Models

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Fashion Models


The vacancy in eyes is neither feline
nor fishy. It's royal. Crowned by current
fashion with approved beauty, models
walk or stand ritually while gazes and lenses
pledge fealty. This slenderness

is a cousin of gaunt. Is the frame bones
haunted by flesh or vice versa? A fashion
model's an illusion, an unreal estate, an
expensive trick played on eyes, desire,
and retail markets. One need only focus

on an ear or an elbow, though,
and the game is up. The model is
human, the fashion is woven fibers
or tanned hide, and the pageant
is but a bright pretty bore.


Copyright 2010  Hans Ostrom

An Interview About Ogden Nash

Here's a link to a 2005 interview between Ben Wattenberg (Public Broadcasting Service, USA) and Douglas Parker concerning Parker's biography of Ogden Nash, master of humorous light verse, and writer of fiction.

Ogden Nash: The Life and Work of America's Laureate of Light Verse by Douglas M. Parker

The Best of Ogden Nash

Ogden Nash's Zoo

Illinois' Poet Laureate

Kevin Stein is Illinois' Poet Laureate, and he teaches at Bradley University.  Here is a link to his site.

One of his books: Sufficiency of the Actual (Illinois Poetry Series).

a cummings poem

It seems like a good day to post a poem by e.e. cummings, one that appears elsewhere online:

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Peter Viereck

On another blog, I just posted something about Peter Viereck (1916-2006), poet and historian.

Viereck's books include  New and Selected Poems, 1932-1967   and  Door.

Arkansas' Poet Laureate

Peggy Vining is Arkansas' Poet Laureate.

Louisiana's Poet Laureate

Louisiana's current Poet Laureate is Darrell Bourque. His books include  Plainsongs, The Blue Boat, Burnt Water Suite (nice title), and Call and Response.

West Virginia's Poet Laureate

West Virginia's Poet Laureate is Irene McKinney. 

Her books include Unthinkable: Selected Poems 1976-2004 and Six O'Clock Mine Report.  She also edited a collection of West Virginian writing, Back Country.

Colorado's Poet Laureate

Mary Crow is Colorado's Poet Laureate, and here is a link to her site.

And here is a link to one of her books:

I Have Tasted the Apple (American Poets Continuum)

Derbyshire's Poet Laureate

Here is a link to the site of Ann Atkinson, Poet Laureate of Derbyshire.

Good Weather Inside

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Good Weather Inside

I'm fond of interior fogs, thick mists
in which to disappear when the world
gets especially giddy, unambiguous,
and annoying.  Invisible geese mutter
to themselves. A creek is to be heard
but not seen. The sun ceases to be
a celebrity.  As Auden wrote, "Thank
you, fog."  At other times, the good
weather inside invites.  When muck
and slush of human interaction dispirits,
a walk in the mind's bright meadow beckons.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Thank You, Fog: Last Poems.

Venues

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Venues


My residences are three--
the present, past, and me.
The past is vast, illusory.
Present's cramped, a tiny pill,
so its contents spill
into past. Still
there's Me, which is a what
that's a where and a who,
not so different from a You.



Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Hey, Baby

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Hiram and His Hey-Baby Poem


"Hey, Baby, here's another Hey-Baby poem,
full of neon bats and radioactive butterflies,
false promises and outlandish proposals,
a Magical Realist's dream-yacht,
Dylan Thomas's unpaid bar bill, too
much cheese and not enough wine. In this
Hey-Baby poem, you get compared.

Yeah, Baby, you get compared to such
extravagant particulars that the poem
claims you'll sweat liquid marble and gargle
with nectar. Undeterred by the overpopulation
of Hey-Baby poems, this one wants to be known
as an elder adolescent and a crusty old
lust-addict both at once. Asleep on a stained

couch, this poem dreams it's Casanova on a Harley,
Byron on a skateboard, Christina Rossetti's
market-analyst, and an Arabian nighthawk riding
a golden pogo-stick. Hey, Baby, my heart's not in
this Hey-Baby poem. It's because I always thought
the genre was horse-shit and the women who fell
for it more to be pitied than played. Hey, Baby,

as you well know, you can do better than this
Hey-Baby poem or any other, so take this anti-
Hey-Baby poem, use it as a coupon, and redeem
it for the platinum version of your crap-detector,
just in case something or someone subtle
slides your way with a Hey-Baby poem in disguise."
Thus spake Hiram to his laptop in a glad cafe.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Bergman, The Knight, and Death

Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal (1957) is one of my favorite films--partly, I think, because of the imagery, but also because Bergman handles the grim allegory in an amusing way. I do acknowledge the film isn't for everyone, however. Here's a link to the scene in which Death first introduces himself, formally, to the Knight (in Swedish, no subtitles).

Moyers' Favorite Poem Project

The site of the television program, Bill Moyers Journal, has a favorite-poem project going. Lots of interesting choices.

Timeline of Insurance

Only 610 years, approximately, after the concept of insurance arose (at least in a European context), the U.S. Congress seems poised--if that's the word--to get more people health insurance, or at least that's the claim, as it were. Here is a link to a time-line of insurance. Exciting reading.

South Dakota's Poet Laureate

As noted earlier, Larry Woiwode is North Dakota's Poet Laureate. Who is South Dakota's? I'm glad you asked. David Allen Evans, whose books include Bull Rider's Advice: New And Selected Poems (2003).