Thursday, September 24, 2020

In Which Small Creatures Crawl

  
With time, after time, success
and failure blend into
a warm tide pool 
in which small creatures
crawl. "That's all?"
can be asked, rhetorically,
of both success and failure
and even doing just all right. 

Asking it just might be a sign 
of spiritual growth or of
something less grandiose,
like relaxing or looking 
outward, or earned indifference
to worldly weights and standards. 

hans ostrom

Tuesday, September 22, 2020

"At the Bottom of Things," by Karin Boye

 A poem by Swedish Modernist poet Karin Boye (1900-1941), translated by David McDuff, who translated her Collected Poems from Bloodaxe Books. Reading/video:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1setqhR1spI

Sunday, September 20, 2020

Poet's Musings: "For Librarians," by Hans Ostrom

Re-posting one from 10 years ago, since we're celebrating libraries/librarians:

Poet's Musings: "For Librarians," by Hans Ostrom

"Library Ode," by Philip Larkin

 Libraries seem more important than ever in these anti-intellectual, anti-science times. Here's a short tribute-poem to them by Philip Larkin--reading/video:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CszitvjKl5M

Friday, September 18, 2020

"Step Out Onto the Planet," by Lew Welch

 A short poem by Beat writer Lew Welch. Welch (1926-1971) was an important poet and teacher in the San Francisco Renaissance/Beat Movement. For a time, he functioned as the step-father of the lad who would adopt the performer's name, Huey Lewis. Welch is presumed to have committed suicide on May 26, 1971, in the Sierra Nevada. His body has never been found. City Lights Books published his Collected Poems (Ring of Bone) in 2012, with an afterword by Gary Snyder, who was Welch's roommate at Reed College. Reading/video:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1sF0C-ctLFE

What the Hell is Going On Around Here?

What the hell is going on? What
is this recklessness? Leaders
and followers, people we knew,
they see forests burning and laugh,
see murder and justify it, see
common sense and start screaming
and rolling around on the floor
like Hitler and vomit 
deranged racist speech. 

They say it's their civil right
to sneeze viral mucous in my face.
They say they're all about the
White Race, which--this just in--
doesn't exist. We're all humans.
One species. Google it. 

Is it a pill? Propaganda?
What makes them insanely
lethal and lethally insane?
A drug? Hypnosis? A hustler
with a blond barge atop his head?
A yearning for a violent absolute?
(I refer my colleague to the comment
about Hitler I made moments ago.)

What is this burning of science
at the stake? This goddamn
making shit up and trying to
wing it when knowledge can
put things right? This living
in White basements and thinking
that they're the whole world?

What the hell is going on around here?
It's a drunken parade with guns, a pageant
of stupidity, a carnival of hatred. 
Grow up, wash your hands but
don't wash your hands like Pilate,
pretend the facts are true: a mask
is good for me and you. Broaden

your horizons. Read some books.
Listen to Duke Ellington. Smash
your shrunken-head view 
of a fantasy America. Stop
fearing people you don't know.
Leave the cult. Listen to your children.
Settle the fuck down. What the hell!
What the hell is going on around here?


hans ostrom 2020

Wednesday, September 16, 2020

"Chance Meetings," by Conrad Aiken

 A reading/video of a poem by Conrad Aiken, American poet who won the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o_Es671AkPw

"Lines Written at the Grave of Alexandre Dumas," by Gwendolyn Bennett

Harlem Renaissance writer Gwendolyn Bennett wrote this poem about the great adventure-novelist Alexandre Dumas (The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers, etc.), whose father was French and whose mother was African--and a former slave:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXl_LaNgWxg

Goat Island

On that island wild goats
climb cliffs. Women
govern the place, living
mostly in the mountains.
It is a matriarchy,

which, based on reason
and evidence, advises
the citizenry, including men,
what to do. I've sent for a

brochure. I'm not sure
if I want to apply to live
there. But I'm a man, 
and I don't mind being
directed by experts,
especially if they're women. 

Apparently the fishing 
is good, there's a solid
poetic tradition, and live
music thrives. I'll let you
know what happens with
me and Goat Island. 


hans ostrom 2020

Tuesday, September 15, 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (19)

We're double-bound to home
today. There is the viral reason,
and now smoke
from the Great Western American
Fire of 2020 creams air.

Airborne ash makes
the sun look like the moon.

Birds do their best to eat
out there, but there are
no bugs in that air.

I'm calm. I stare.
I'd like to go into exile.
But where? Nobody
wants to see Americans now,
not even Americans. 


hans ostrom 2020

Humid

 Do me a favor,
says weather,
and carry this anvil
made of steam
around with you today:
okay?

Creeks flow 
off my skin,
turning shirts
into wetlands.

After work, napping
in feverish circumstances, 
I dream of alligators
belching thunder.

Humidity and feet,
I think, make for a fine
Stilton stink. With

sour thoughts, 
I wait for cloud-towers
to collapse into rain:
one wet defeats another. 


hans ostrom 2020

Olfactory: A Poem of Odors

 (in other words, it stinks)

asphalt, freshly wet
chocolate

vanilla
musty villa

sawdust
red rust

perfume
sea spume

diesel oil
black soil

cardamom
dark rum

sweat, also

known as perspiration
irrigation

tomato, just picked--
sauce, garlic-ed

wet dog
thick fog

cinnamon
saffron bun
laundry hung in sun
roasted turkey, done

pickling brine
iodine

shampooed hair
alpine air

hills of garbage
boiled cabbage

rosemary
raspberry

red rose
painted toes

horse stall
snow fall

cedar chest
lemon

zest. 


hans ostrom 2010/2020