Poe Sonnet
He was so utterly American,
Careening through his life deliberately,
Addicted to both impulse and ambition.
He wrote for art and also for the money.
New England and the South converged in him,
Dividing up his traits chaotically:
Roderick Usher and A. Gordon Pym.
He wielded gothic excess gleefully.
In Hollywood he'd find himself today,
Overindulged, in rehab, overpaid.
Over-the-top was Edgar Allan's way.
He always led imagination on a raid.
Gargantuan and childish, you know:
The disunited state of E.A. Poe.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Yoga Poem #2
Yoga Poem #2
Downward dog indeed.
Make the arse the apex,
dig in your toes, and put
that nose near the ground.
Hey, sniff your way to namaste.
Don't look at your neighbor's
ass. You're not traveling
in a pack. In down-dog,
your body and the Earth
make a triangle pointing
toward the sky
and Orion's dog
eternally faithful.
Butt in the air,
you are undignified
and proud both
at once. Your shoulders
ache. They're holding
up your lower floors,
something they're
not used to.
You wish to lie
down like a tired
hound.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Downward dog indeed.
Make the arse the apex,
dig in your toes, and put
that nose near the ground.
Hey, sniff your way to namaste.
Don't look at your neighbor's
ass. You're not traveling
in a pack. In down-dog,
your body and the Earth
make a triangle pointing
toward the sky
and Orion's dog
eternally faithful.
Butt in the air,
you are undignified
and proud both
at once. Your shoulders
ache. They're holding
up your lower floors,
something they're
not used to.
You wish to lie
down like a tired
hound.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
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