Hans Ostrom Poems
|322.||Theology And Banking||10/23/2007|
|324.||Sestina: The Game Of Baseball||10/23/2007|
|325.||A Photograph Of The Day-Shift: North Star Mine,20 June 1938||10/23/2007|
|326.||Fossil Of A Wing||10/19/2007|
|327.||A Hod-Carrier Reflects||10/19/2007|
|328.||And Now, Whether||10/12/2007|
|329.||How To Be A Cat||5/29/2008|
|331.||Langston Hughes And Barack Obama||1/20/2009|
|332.||How To Write A Poem: A Poem||5/11/2009|
Comments about Hans Ostrom
In a wilderness of reasons
not to write, he wrote. Just wrote.
Each word was the belief
in the possibility of the next.
He kept it going.
Mostly his days and words talk
quietly, though he could rant and rage.
Mention is what his voices usually do
in a world of self-convinced noise.
Truth mentioned is a sweet brass
note you’ll never forget. Writing,
Langston showed writing to be
an unashamed act, one of the few
in a shameful, shaming world. Words
grin. Words reside. Words throw
a meal together for unexpected friends,
make a garden...
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.