Sunday, June 6, 2021

Forest Floor

forested canyon, sierra
nevada--we walked
among conifer columns
standing in living lithe
patience. our booted feet

landed quietly on annual
layers of pine needles,
each level a different color
of time, light tan on top,

and a darkening all the way
down to black fusion 
with soil, reabsorption--

perhaps a resurrection 
with water up, back up into
tree through root and cambrium,
bough, cone, seed, pollen--
or needle again, shaking
green in wind, staying
still in snow. 


hans ostrom 2021

House Sparrows in June

house sparrow--chest
dusted rose--lands on a line,
faces west, sings a languid,
bluesy thing, a call, a tune,
a testimony,

also a satire of communicating
wires and the rest of our mess.

a second sparrow lands--
birds beside themselves. 

more singing, sewed
together as dusk grows
lemony, then orange.

the first bird stops
singing and grooms
the second: time

soon to nest, close
up eyes, rest singing
throat and tongue--
one more day
one more day gone. 


hans ostrom 2021

Tuesday, May 25, 2021

You're Seeing Things

the idiom's "you're seeing things,"
meaning things that aren't there,
things that are not. maybe

a swish of wish fulfillment,
filaments of tropical optical
illusions, fusions of shapes

in the mind behind the eyes.
hope and fear make us tell
ourselves sensory lies. 

in truth (a country hard 
to find), whatever whats
are out there blink in 

and out of form. shiftiness
seems to be the quantum
norm. that's what they say,

the theys that write articles
about particles. we're all seeing--
sensing--things that are/are not

there. every gray boulder's
a bag of flickering electrons.
each crowd of people's an ad

hoc conference of arrivals
and gones. as reality's always
elsewhere, we agree temprorarily

to pretend present forms
can be trusted--can of soup,
freeway loop, chicken coop. 

roosters of routine doodle-do
us awake, and we wake from
one dawning dream into 

another. and another . . . .


hans ostrom 2021

Tuesday, May 18, 2021

A Thing Nearby

old narrow bookcase,

hand-sawed: pinewood

varnished dark, the grain

flowing like a creek at dusk.



traces of the maker's hand

remain--his keyhole saw

and chisel, sandpaper. 

it's good to see the life



in things falsely called

inanimate--spirits of tools,

trees, crafters, days:

evaporated moments way



before I lived. this bookcase

was when I was not. turn now,

see and touch a thing nearby,

retrieve its history alive in your



mind. imagine its granular past

marked by the form of the thing. 



hans ostrom 2021

Garden's Greens

spinach leaves bring
a green so deep
it looks like an ominous
sea. genial lettuces

foreground more 
light in green, sometimes
whisper blond secrets.
kale makes us think

of Russia--tough,
green without sheen,
unafraid of invading
weeds, partial 

to hot soup. carrots,
always recalcitrant,
offer delicate floral
tops at this stage,

suggest positive 
orange thinking under
dirt. and potatoes,
dear spuds in their

group effort. plain
green tops as practical
as old bricklayers.
such lumpen, golden

manufacturing occurs
down there in Tuber
World, a dark quiet
factory. peas and beans:

what to say? so madly
manic in their way.
pods leap out overnight,
tendrils reach and entwine

with weird desire,
and, friend, you had 
better be ready with 
bucket. oh, greens

of the garden, we
bless you, we missed you
in Winter's gray dungeon,
dreaming seed dreams. 


hans ostrom 2021

Thursday, May 13, 2021

Actual Art

Walls of art marching
against sensory perception,
walls exhaust me. Not as much 
as grunt-work at the gravel
plant. Still. Excess of art
fries neurons, sends the self
searching for a burrow.

The Hermitage hit me
like a tsunami. Bus loads
of tourists triggered
a riptide. I ran gasping
to the gift shop. A way
to ease back into reality.

Among postcard re-
productions, I found 
an original print from an
engraving, contemporary
Russian artist. Brown ink.
A simple St. Petersburg
street scene--bridge, river,
stolid building. The cashier,

a lovely woman with Nordic
blue eyes, said, "This is
actually art." "Yes--so glad
I found it," I said. Cold Wars
new and old did not stop
us from agreeing. Somewhere
in St. Petersburg, the artist
toiled at her day job. Outside

the Hermitage with my 
actual art in a brown paper
sack, I accepted September
sun warmth gratefully.
Breathed, the great palace
of art behind my back.


hans ostrom 2021

Thursday, April 29, 2021

Back at Your Place

when you're nobody special,
no one in particular besides 
your particular self, with those
eyebrows of yours and memories
of a childhood pond-raft called
"Sinking Slowly," a taste 
for fried trout and boiled potatoes,
an innate attraction to women
whose figures (a euphemism)
some people called "voluptuous,"

your sad, haphazard collections
of stamps and baseball cards
(the latter cut clumsily from
cereal boxes), your affection
for a tan chenille bed-spread
(and for the term "bed-spread"),
and a relationship to books
some found overly intense, then

it's hard, when you go to school,
to work and parties, events
and protests; yes, it's difficult
to become the additional and 
enhanced other, the one you're
expected to be, a Situational
You. It is exhausting, in fact,

and back at your place, again,
resting, reading, perhaps thinking
of a voluptuous woman with
whom you engaged in awkward
discourse while inhaling her
natural and manufactured
perfumes, you might ask, 
with tiresome faux naivete, 
"Whose idea was Society,
anyway?" Anyway, you are
and shall remain, just you. 


hans ostrom 2021

Monday, April 26, 2021

Sometimes Shame

sometimes shame seems

like a thin scum on a still pool.

other times, like an avalanche

aimed at what's left of your



self worth. shame can make

you want to walk away from 

yourself--until you come to the

end of the chain and recall



you can't do that. some days

you find you feel like a boss.

you fire shame, tell it to haul

its slithery useless self off



your job site. because you

have work to do. because

you know again that shame 

is not the same as you. 


hans ostrom 2021

Collect Call

"Collect Call": nothing but a cast-off
piece of telecommunications junk. 
At the dig, go down a few layers,
pull it up, wipe off the dirt. Yeah,

you're in a phone booth--upright
glass coffin, accordion door, a fat
greasy pawed-over phone book
dangling from a chain like a ham. 

Pop your only coin in the phone's
chrome slot, hear the black box
taste it, then swallow it, gulping. 
Dial zero & as the wheel turns,

listen to it skip over numbers
in ticks. Woman's voice. Always. 
Profession: "Operator," which is
the first words she says. Say,

"I'd like to make a collect call,
person-to-person." Say city,
state (province, country). The
name of the person you imagine

will not be there. Spell name
for Operator. Suspense. Then
the purring of an analogue phone
ringing. Now enter a virtual

probation zone. Hear click 
and voice. Operator: "I have
a collect call person-to-person
from . . . . will you accept?"

Wait while wrong voice seeks
right voice. Do not speak yet.
Person you expected not to be
there is there. Operator repeats

operator-speak. "Will you accept
the charges?" "Yes." "Go ahead."
Exhilarated, you chat and chit 
before explaining your desperate need.

. . . Yeah, you had to find a phone
booth and have a coin. Or ask to use
somebody's phone. The person
had to be there, not next door, 

and had to accept being the one
from whom the phone company,
not carrier, collected. Had to want
to be the person in person-to-person.

An Operator had to broker
your intimacy, your broke-ass
status. Maybe someone had died,
or you just got off a bus or had

survived a hitched ride. Your
car broke down. You'd woke up
robbed except for a quarter. And
you were in a phone booth lit

up like a tanning booth. Digital
virtuality lay ahead in Time,
circling a black hole. You were
stuck in a here, back there,

cold, holding a a grimy black
receiver on a chrome cord. And
here it is, in your hand, the Collect
Call (Person-to-Person). And you

don't want it. That's not why you
came to dig in the dig. It's awkward,
quaint, and stupid. You throw it back
and get your phone wafer out

and tap it twice, maybe three times,
and talk as you ride your present
moment, clouds and mists, fogs and
storms of unheard voices all around you. 

But if your in the booth,
and the call has ended, and before
shove the door aside: take that coin
the phone barfed back. 


hans ostrom 

Thursday, April 22, 2021

San Diego from the Air

from the air

the spread of hovels
looks like a scaly skin
disease only saltwater stops.

mansions are the
the same as shacks, just
larger roofs. tower, warehouse?

no matter. 
all belong to an 
untreatable scourges. it

will run its
course. our course. to
what end, who can say? many

do say. an
apocalypse of
capitalisms' necessary 

addiction to
growth, manifest 
infestation of the mildly

named "development"?
climate catastrophe? or
just everything as it should be?

oh, do not worry.
everything's under control.
Our Lord Economy is Growing.

enclaves of wealth
under siege, desperate mobs
climbing hills and walls, waves of a blood tide?

in san diego
they talk a lot about the "cost
of living." their definition's narrow. 

on the ground, in
traffic, some wonder, does this
make sense, does this make sense at all?


hans ostrom 2021

Tuesday, April 13, 2021

Our Grandest Illusion


Even if what we know is incorrect,
and most of it is, 
how could it not be, 
it's knowledge: it's in there,
camped in memory, sending
smoke signals from box canyons,
tramping around neuron trails. 

The grandest illusion of all,
knowledge, freeze-dried 
in old books, hoarded like grain
and gunpowder in electronic
forts, marbled into our speech
and memories, alive in lore,
legend, lies, logos, ethos,
eros, and pathos. Still,

add it all up, and it's just 
a single torch held up
against abysmal black
darkness in a forest
no one's yet named on
one of a trillion planets. 

The one and the zero 
in binary strings: we know
everything, we know nothing,
a lot, a little bit, maybe, hard
to say, wait and see. You know?


hans ostrom 2021

Sunday, April 11, 2021

Empire, Why Will You?

Will you invade again, Empire?
To show your Empire license
hasn't expired? Send troops,
send planes and drones with
bombs, ready the rockets
and missiles, prepare to unleash
empirical Hell? Again? 

We know the arguments against.
The moral, the political,
and the historical. Today
I'm thinking of the emotional. 
Dead children. Dead everyone.
Terrorized families. Blasted homes.
No place to go, no water
to drink, no hope, no food. 

And the practical. When you
can trade for and buy
treasure, when your people
have plenty, when you can
defend yourself a hundred
times over, when your people
are sick of war and just
want to live and work and
love, when your power's

already super, why perform this
depraved stupidity again?
Is it out of some sick habit?
Some cultural addiction?
To what end? I guess if I have
to task the question, then
I'm not empire material. 
Although I live in one of several.


hans ostrom 2021

Wanting Nothing Is Impossible

 At the Art Institute, I saw someone

I'd met professionally a while back.

We talked easily enough.  I offered

to buy us something to eat, museum café.



She accepted. Younger than I, she'd

lived a lot already.  I sensed she was

broke— nothing obvious, just intuition.

With coffee and food, we talked



more.  I said I was

glad we had run into each other.

It was true.  Happenstance

had pleased me.  Her



face changed.  Maybe apparitions 

of men she’d known had  appeared

around the table.  Maybe she couldn’t

recall a single social interaction



in which someone but especially

men had not seemed

to want too much from her.

I sensed she was broke.  I saw she



thought she saw me  wanting something.

It’s true.  I wanted her to finish her

coffee and say, “Nice to see you,”

and leave.  I wanted to say,

 

“Nice to see you,” and leave.

We said phrases like that.  Her

face kept its wariness.   Her

experience had put her on alert.



We left the café and parted.

Can the pronoun “he” ever

want nothing from the pronoun “her”?

Only in theory.  My acquaintance



did not live in theory.  Her life

 was composed of constant practice.

Insistent apparitions had sat at table.

I sensed she was broke.  Now I hope



that she’s not broke, that she’s

better and well. Well, when I think

of her that day, I feel  briefly sad for

simple social moves quickly



complex in Chicago, not to mention

everywhere.  I am a ghost at

a café table in the Art Institute

looking at her guarded face.  I want



to say, “I don’t want anything.  Just

enjoy the coffee, the food, the rest.”

Her face says, “If you say that,

then you do want something.  You



want me to believe you, and believe the rest.”


hans ostrom 1990/2021