Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Monday, September 22, 2014
"Practice Safe Poetry," by Hans Ostrom
How well do you know
the words you're using in poems?
How many other poets have used them?
How many of those poets are infected?
Practice safe writing. Do you know
the proper way to put a condom
on your cursor--or someone else's?
How clean are your pens?
When reading poems in public,
consider wearing a helmet
and safety glasses.
Be aware of your surroundings.
Check for enforcers sent from
various Schools of Poetry. Never
get between an ambitious poet
and a prize or a high poetic office.
Get your poems tested!
hans ostrom 2014
the words you're using in poems?
How many other poets have used them?
How many of those poets are infected?
Practice safe writing. Do you know
the proper way to put a condom
on your cursor--or someone else's?
How clean are your pens?
When reading poems in public,
consider wearing a helmet
and safety glasses.
Be aware of your surroundings.
Check for enforcers sent from
various Schools of Poetry. Never
get between an ambitious poet
and a prize or a high poetic office.
Get your poems tested!
hans ostrom 2014
Friday, September 19, 2014
"Chekhov's Pistol," by Hans Ostrom
In this play I play
the role of William Shakespeare,
who is inside one of his sonnets on stage.
"I" stand in the glass cube (the sonnet),
on the walls
of which the words from the sonnet
appear. "I" shout the words
in random order. "I" strike
the words, curse, and stomp.
Someone pretending to care
comes and lets me out of the
cube. "I" introduce myself
as Bill S., an actor-playwright.
"Hi, Bill!" everyone shouts.
The set shifts.
I'm pushed under a kitchen
table: yep, an American play.
I fall asleep and snore and am
kicked by actors who are
drawing on their experience,
expressing truth, blah blah.
The American playwright
is in the audience, and under
orders from his management,
he acts like he's drunk,
bellicose, and talented.
No longer "I," "I" get out
from under the table and "kill"
all the characters with
a Renaissance sword--
revenge and all that shit.
Now Chekhov comes on stage
with a pistol and shoots me dead.
Dude, it is very cool. The actor's
from Sweden.
hans ostrom 2014
the role of William Shakespeare,
who is inside one of his sonnets on stage.
"I" stand in the glass cube (the sonnet),
on the walls
of which the words from the sonnet
appear. "I" shout the words
in random order. "I" strike
the words, curse, and stomp.
Someone pretending to care
comes and lets me out of the
cube. "I" introduce myself
as Bill S., an actor-playwright.
"Hi, Bill!" everyone shouts.
The set shifts.
I'm pushed under a kitchen
table: yep, an American play.
I fall asleep and snore and am
kicked by actors who are
drawing on their experience,
expressing truth, blah blah.
The American playwright
is in the audience, and under
orders from his management,
he acts like he's drunk,
bellicose, and talented.
No longer "I," "I" get out
from under the table and "kill"
all the characters with
a Renaissance sword--
revenge and all that shit.
Now Chekhov comes on stage
with a pistol and shoots me dead.
Dude, it is very cool. The actor's
from Sweden.
hans ostrom 2014
"We're Very Agreeable," by Hans Ostrom
How lovely of us to help
others keep us under surveillance
with devices we have solemnly,
enthusiastically purchased. A
good citizen is an informed citizen.
Some of us stand in line and ready
to trample each other to get mitts
on the new stuff. We're eager
to help states and corporations
know where we are and what
we're up to. Lovingly we tap
our devices with finger and thumbs.
We message, instantly! We opine.
We stay in touch. We stay in range.
hans ostrom 2014
others keep us under surveillance
with devices we have solemnly,
enthusiastically purchased. A
good citizen is an informed citizen.
Some of us stand in line and ready
to trample each other to get mitts
on the new stuff. We're eager
to help states and corporations
know where we are and what
we're up to. Lovingly we tap
our devices with finger and thumbs.
We message, instantly! We opine.
We stay in touch. We stay in range.
hans ostrom 2014
"Mere Dissolution," by Hans Ostrom
Too tired to attend
the Entropy Conference in Antwerp,
Professor A.P. Ledlox stayed home.
He sipped cryptic broth
and fell apart emotionally.
He stared out the window
at an alleged landscape
(smears of gray and brown).
Oh, for a whiff of
a young woman's neck, oh
for a swim in an alpine lake, oh
for chrissakes shut up, he
told himself: It's
dissolution, mine. Yearning
will not halt or decorate it.
hans ostro 2014
the Entropy Conference in Antwerp,
Professor A.P. Ledlox stayed home.
He sipped cryptic broth
and fell apart emotionally.
He stared out the window
at an alleged landscape
(smears of gray and brown).
Oh, for a whiff of
a young woman's neck, oh
for a swim in an alpine lake, oh
for chrissakes shut up, he
told himself: It's
dissolution, mine. Yearning
will not halt or decorate it.
hans ostro 2014
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
"Prizes," by Hans Ostrom
Paradigm-shift 327.B.3 (revised)
stipulates that anyone expressing
or harboring interest in winning
prestigious prizes, awards, honors,
etc., shall receive it or them. Oscars,
Nobels, National Book Awards,
Pulitzers, Grammies, Laureates,
Man Booker Prizes, Woman Booker
Prizes, Dude Booger Prizes, etc.
After a brief period of mass-elation,
everyone will become unenthusiastic
about such crap. Total devaluation
of such prizes will ensue (the process
began long ago, truth to tell).
Whether more important matters
shall occupy us . . . shall remain
something else to hope for.
At least celebrity will come
to look like a deflated soccer-ball
withering on a dry lake-bed.
hans ostrom
stipulates that anyone expressing
or harboring interest in winning
prestigious prizes, awards, honors,
etc., shall receive it or them. Oscars,
Nobels, National Book Awards,
Pulitzers, Grammies, Laureates,
Man Booker Prizes, Woman Booker
Prizes, Dude Booger Prizes, etc.
After a brief period of mass-elation,
everyone will become unenthusiastic
about such crap. Total devaluation
of such prizes will ensue (the process
began long ago, truth to tell).
Whether more important matters
shall occupy us . . . shall remain
something else to hope for.
At least celebrity will come
to look like a deflated soccer-ball
withering on a dry lake-bed.
hans ostrom
"Anatomy of a Common Misfit," by Hans Ostrom
Sometimes he observes
neighbors, how they drive cars,
converse with each other, walk,
stand, live; and it seems to him
they're really comfortable
with these tasks of living.
He feels awkward by comparison;
and he compares. He feels
not comfortable.
He wishes he had sought
special training in his 20s,
not on the tasks themselves
(he knows how to do them,
and he does them)
but in the being-comfortable
part. Comfort with what
is alleged to be routine.
Now he can't change,
even if he wanted to.
The most he can do
is pretend to have
adapted properly. And
that's not so bad. He'll
leave genuine easy
living to the neighbors,
whom he waves at
in terribly awkward ways,
for example.
He belongs to a demotic
species--the Common Misfit.
hans ostrom 2014
neighbors, how they drive cars,
converse with each other, walk,
stand, live; and it seems to him
they're really comfortable
with these tasks of living.
He feels awkward by comparison;
and he compares. He feels
not comfortable.
He wishes he had sought
special training in his 20s,
not on the tasks themselves
(he knows how to do them,
and he does them)
but in the being-comfortable
part. Comfort with what
is alleged to be routine.
Now he can't change,
even if he wanted to.
The most he can do
is pretend to have
adapted properly. And
that's not so bad. He'll
leave genuine easy
living to the neighbors,
whom he waves at
in terribly awkward ways,
for example.
He belongs to a demotic
species--the Common Misfit.
hans ostrom 2014
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Poems by Carter Monroe
Carter Monroe is a fine poet as well as a small-press publisher of poetry and fiction. Here is a link to some of his work, including the poem, "Ten Beers and Six Cigarettes":
link to poems
link to poems
Monday, September 15, 2014
Tim Earley
Tim Earley is a fine contemporary poet. Here is a link to some of his work:
link to book
http://horselesspress.org/2013/12/18/poems-descriptive-of-rural-life-and-scenery-by-tim-earley/
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Friday, September 12, 2014
Diversity and Liberal Arts Colleges
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
"The Cabin at Lavezolla Creek," by Hans Ostrom
When we built the Jones cabin
up Lavezolla Creek, summer,
Sierra Nevada, we left home
in the loaded pickup and worked
ten-hour days. The droning drive
in the '69 Ford F-100
took an hour one way.
The Old Man was nearing 60 years
then. At noon he'd take a cat-nap
on the plywood sub-floor, his silver
lunch-bucket the pillow, his hat
over his eyes. Snored. I remember
something like pity arising in me.
Now I'm sixty, the Old Man's been dead
a long time, and I ended up with
the green Ford pickup, which people
think is "cool." The recall
of bright summer, big conifers,
the quick creek, and work to make
you bone tired seems now like
something that will disappear soon,
like a butterfly or pine-pollen
floating in lustrous air. These tributary
memories that shape our maps
of ourselves disappear as we do.
No one will remember that the Old Man
and I were the crew.
hans ostrom 2014
Monday, September 8, 2014
"Images Coalesce," by Hans Ostrom
I have come to believe
(note somber rhetoric)
that when the images
don't coalesce (there
is a chrome fender in
manzanita, a desire in me
to seem clever, billions
of objects and animals,
blue fabric, scalded flesh,
nothing, hydro-electric
dams, nothing, no connection,
and "surrealism" is no excuse,
shut up) we need to
let them be art.
The images coalesce
because to see patterns
has been drilled into us.
Capitalize. The images
coalesce because
our brains evolved,
along with much of what's
on the surface, and our
brains change what's here,
manufacturing patterns.
(Incidentally, who am I?
No, I mean really, who
am I?) The brain is
at home, that is.
hans ostrom 2014
(note somber rhetoric)
that when the images
don't coalesce (there
is a chrome fender in
manzanita, a desire in me
to seem clever, billions
of objects and animals,
blue fabric, scalded flesh,
nothing, hydro-electric
dams, nothing, no connection,
and "surrealism" is no excuse,
shut up) we need to
let them be art.
The images coalesce
because to see patterns
has been drilled into us.
Capitalize. The images
coalesce because
our brains evolved,
along with much of what's
on the surface, and our
brains change what's here,
manufacturing patterns.
(Incidentally, who am I?
No, I mean really, who
am I?) The brain is
at home, that is.
hans ostrom 2014
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Friday, September 5, 2014
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