Hans Ostrom Poems
|321.||A Photograph Of The Day-Shift: North Star Mine,20 June 1938||10/23/2007|
|322.||Fossil Of A Wing||10/19/2007|
|323.||A Hod-Carrier Reflects||10/19/2007|
|324.||For Cafeteria Workers||2/5/2009|
|325.||And Now, Whether||10/12/2007|
|326.||How To Be A Cat||5/29/2008|
|328.||Langston Hughes And Barack Obama||1/20/2009|
|329.||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...
Hands Of The Wind
Inside a pyramid, its reason:
A former king parched like a leaf
And now impervious to grief,
Bacilli, and a shift of season.
Dust of a million builders’ bones
Informs the wind with grit, lingers,
Then scrapes with unbelieving fingers
Familiar blocks of hand-hewn stone.