drone, smells, chatter. blurs
drone, smells. chatter. drone,
revery, comfort, pain, fear,
drone. blurs, noise, pain.
fatigue, noise, noise. chatter,
noise, fatigue. smells, smells,
smile. glance, fatigue, noise.
glance, glance, fear. pain,
smells, drone. drone, drone.
stop sudden noise. drone,
weary, glance. smells.
stop, up, smells, glance,
out. noise. fatigue.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
The Sonnet Is a Puzzle in a Box
The sonnet is a puzzle in a box
That sits there on the shelf of poetry.
Of course the form has taken many knocks,
In part because of its ubiquity.
Indeed, as here, one writes about the form
When writing in it: ah, meta-verse,
It seems, became a while back the norm.
Some think it makes the sonnet even worse.
The sonnet lends itself to poise and pace,
And yet one feels quite rushed to make a point:
Iambic sprint, three quatrains in a race.
The last two lines, however, own the joint.
Well, here we are. This is the thirteenth line.
This sonnet says its feeling mighty fine.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
That sits there on the shelf of poetry.
Of course the form has taken many knocks,
In part because of its ubiquity.
Indeed, as here, one writes about the form
When writing in it: ah, meta-verse,
It seems, became a while back the norm.
Some think it makes the sonnet even worse.
The sonnet lends itself to poise and pace,
And yet one feels quite rushed to make a point:
Iambic sprint, three quatrains in a race.
The last two lines, however, own the joint.
Well, here we are. This is the thirteenth line.
This sonnet says its feeling mighty fine.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Such a Lovely Education
When she walks into a room,
she shines the shadows away.
When she walks into a room,
she shows hips how to sway.
When she looks into your eyes,
she pulls them into hers.
When she looks into yours eyes,
the love-lust motor whirs.
When she talks, talks low to you,
warm honey comes to mind.
When she talks, talks low to you,
You feel your heart unbind.
The walk, the words, the look
construct this fascination.
The walk, the words, the look:
Such a lovely education.
Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
she shines the shadows away.
When she walks into a room,
she shows hips how to sway.
When she looks into your eyes,
she pulls them into hers.
When she looks into yours eyes,
the love-lust motor whirs.
When she talks, talks low to you,
warm honey comes to mind.
When she talks, talks low to you,
You feel your heart unbind.
The walk, the words, the look
construct this fascination.
The walk, the words, the look:
Such a lovely education.
Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Category: Vulvas (a found poem)
Category: Vulvas. Note: This
category should be empty. Any
content should be recategorized.
This tag should be used
on existing categories
that are likely to be used by others,
even though the “real”
category is elsewhere.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
found on wikipedia
Monday, September 24, 2012
Frustration Station
At Frustration Station, crates
of bad karma get off-loaded,
vats of bile sit in storage, and
tickets turn to paste.
Conductors
have called a halt. Engineers
weep, and tunnels belch hot wind.
Departures and arrivals melt
into one immobile blob.
Turnstiles
turn into empty gun-barrels aimed
at one another. Vermin gnaw
wires of
ambition. Only the fiddler
playing for oily coins is happy.
These faces, these faces, these
faces twist toward scream.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
The Commonplace Sage
The sage on the mountain's a commonplace
sage. He's suspicious of gurus. He invites
you to spend only what you have, buy
no more than you need. The commonplace
sage tells poets they're only as good
as their latest poem. A laurel's just
a shrub. The sage says if you want
to argue politics, debate yourself.
Sage suggests you re-familiarize
yourself with arithmetic, popular
music, and the software known
as Crap Detector 2.0. Thinks
you might want to find the good
sense you misplaced when you
were a big deal there for a while.
This common sage sings a tune
or two, and wow: here comes a
herd of memories across a neon
pasture, and the needed card
floats up on the river, and
Frank Zappa clowns around in
sage. He's suspicious of gurus. He invites
you to spend only what you have, buy
no more than you need. The commonplace
sage tells poets they're only as good
as their latest poem. A laurel's just
a shrub. The sage says if you want
to argue politics, debate yourself.
Sage suggests you re-familiarize
yourself with arithmetic, popular
music, and the software known
as Crap Detector 2.0. Thinks
you might want to find the good
sense you misplaced when you
were a big deal there for a while.
This common sage sings a tune
or two, and wow: here comes a
herd of memories across a neon
pasture, and the needed card
floats up on the river, and
Frank Zappa clowns around in
heaven with Steve Allen's toupé.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
People Who Go Fishing
We sit. We stand. We walk
and wade and float and wait.
We work with things
from a diminutive realm:
string, bits of cloth, feathers,
miniature coins and jewelry,
lead pearls, worms, tiny eggs,
eyelets, small wheels, thin sticks.
Like psychologists, geologists,
and those obsessed with Hell,
we're obsessed with a submerged
dominion, about which we invent
myths, toward which we harbor
resentments, and into which
we cast gleaming desires.
We are deceivers of water-creatures.
We are lords of the sky-world.
We do not travel water to get somewhere.
To us, Odysseus was an abject fool.
Our world is lyric, not epic. Ahab
was a reckless tourist. Jonah was bait.
And yes, we know whales aren't fish,
so be quiet. Ssshhh! Did you hear that?
Did you feel that? We live for small
signs of animated resistance, for
the life on the line. No, it is not
time to go. There is plenty of light left.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
and wade and float and wait.
We work with things
from a diminutive realm:
string, bits of cloth, feathers,
miniature coins and jewelry,
lead pearls, worms, tiny eggs,
eyelets, small wheels, thin sticks.
Like psychologists, geologists,
and those obsessed with Hell,
we're obsessed with a submerged
dominion, about which we invent
myths, toward which we harbor
resentments, and into which
we cast gleaming desires.
We are deceivers of water-creatures.
We are lords of the sky-world.
We do not travel water to get somewhere.
To us, Odysseus was an abject fool.
Our world is lyric, not epic. Ahab
was a reckless tourist. Jonah was bait.
And yes, we know whales aren't fish,
so be quiet. Ssshhh! Did you hear that?
Did you feel that? We live for small
signs of animated resistance, for
the life on the line. No, it is not
time to go. There is plenty of light left.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Hiram Goes to Cafe Fear
(another in a series of "Hiram" poems)
Hiram Goes To Café Fear
Hiram thinks, “Here I am sitting inside
my shirt, shoes, and trousers, on a chair
at a table in a café.
I am afraid
of dying. Also of
nothing. I tell
a waitress what I want for lunch.
She brings it. I eat
it, holding off
fear for a while. I
don’t know
who or why I am. I am
aware
of sitting, afraid, inside my clothes
and body. This is me,
I think.
So this is me and this my fear.”
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Spiders' Migration
(re-posting a seasonal poem)
Spiders' Migration
Spiders' Migration
Northern Hemisphere, September: spiders
come inside. They
slip through seams
to here, where summer seems to them
to spend the winter.
Their digits tap out
code on hardwood floors.
They rappel
from ceilings on out-spooled filaments
of mucous, measuring the place. Sometimes
they stay just still.
Paused. Poised.
It’s not as if spiders wait for us
to watch them, or even as if they
wait. Rather,
octavian motion
is so easy, syncopated, and several
that stillness surely exhilarates spiders
just arriving from the Northern Hemisphere.
It’s time for us to enter equal days and
equal nights, to pluck the filament between
fear of and fascination with spiders
moving in.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
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