Filial affection
Filial Affection
I can hear her whimper in the night, I must get up
put my frogman suit on and go to her, she sits in
a cove dressed only in a sea weed jumper, there are
holes in her fishnet stocking; yes, you are right my
little daughter is a mermaid
It was July day long time ago when I met her mum,
the dolphin, a hopeless affair doomed to failure, but
did we try! The baby stayed in my swimming pool,
while her mother swam to the coast of Greenland
and feeding off the shrimps there
When my tiny girl became a teenager she went back
to her mother and they both swam to Greenland; and
I thought I should never see her again. Tired she sits
and waits for me. I must join her, in her world, now
that I sold my house with the swimming pool.
poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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Dogs In Wars
The big, white dog cowered in the shadows unseen
by soldiers marching by, there had been fighting and
many corpses lay rotting in streets, hungry dog had
been eating, first reluctantly, then with abandonment,
forgotten was ancient taboo about eating human flesh...
Soldiers, who could kill their enemies brutally and
without mercy, had an irrational fear against dogs that
ate humans. The white dog knew this, any dog seen
eating man could never again be mans best friend
When the war was over it would try to be adopted by
a nice family with small children it could look after;
but for now the dog was hungry it had to finish eating
an arm that appeared to have belonged to a soldier who
had been keen on weightlifting before joining the army
and be blown to bits by a wayside bomb.
poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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The roman soldier
The Roman Soldier
It was late evening, when walking along the walls of
the ancient city of Chester, I saw him, the old centurion,
he stood alone dreaming of retirement, the land and
slaves he had been promised when he joined the army.
He and his kind was hated here, in his own beloved land
the almond tree stood in ornate regalia whishing spring
welcome by strewing a carpet of flowers on its path.
He didn’t see the two terrorists sneak up on him, when
he did it was too late, and slowed by age he was knifed
repeatedly. I think they must have sensed my presence,
looking my way they stopped, jumped over the parapet
and vanished. I held the centurion’s hands, he opened
his brown eyes, a brave little smile, and said: “Guess
I shan’t see the flowering of the almond tree this year.”
poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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September travel
September Travel
I’ve packed my suitcase ready to go to Norway in
September, extra jumpers, wooly socks and two
bottles of whisky; well, I’m only staying there for
four days, but there might be a war breaking out.
Booze is very expensive in Norway so I can’t go
into bars, but sit in a tiny hotel room drink good
whisky from a glass in the bathroom, the one used
to brush ones teeth in the morning.
I will be walking around in streets where no one
knows me, there will be rain and I have no umbrella,
and I will end up in one of those expensive bars,
just standing there drinking and talking to no one.
I have unpacked my suitcase, and opened one of
the bottles and sit in my favourite chair drinking
[...] Read more
poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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Animal Sentimentality
Animal Sentimentality
If I told and elephant it was the biggest land animal
in the world, would it trumpet this good news around
and be bigheaded, or be envious the elegant giraffe,
for its lovely eyes, long neck and splendid view?
On the pristine sandy beach, near the Nordic town,
a rare, long legged bird landed, it was so beautiful
that it was shot next day for its feathers, the paper
that reported the crime had black borders that day.
An elephant isn’t cute, walks arduously, cranky eyes,
once saw an elephant foot, used as an umbrella stand,
bought its owner was on holiday in Africa, this made
me so gloomy that I peed into the foot before leaving.
I should have said something at once, hit him and left
in a righteous huff, but had also brought bottles of
whisky; yes, I do have soft heart for animals, bit booze
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poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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Liverpool Days
Wavertree road used to have a café there called
“Tasty Toaster, ” business was good till the formidable
M.T. came to power and low paid worker, my main
costumers, got the sack, and told to go on bikes they
couldn’t afford to buy in the first place.
Above the shop lived a lady teacher, she drank, at ten
in the evening, as I closed and cleaned up, I could hear
her sing, when filling her bathtub with water.
One night, it was raining; she must have had a stroke
or something, the water kept running, rotten floor she
and the bathtub ended up in my café.
Under the door the water ran and down the street, since
it was raining few has noticed. Called the police when
I got there, the landlord came, insisted that I had to pay.
I threaten to sue him; he called me a Polish shit and
blamed me for the holocaust I called him a Jewish shit
and blamed him for Palestine. I finally collected my
insurance money and retired from the catering business
poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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Tommy Steele And Parkgate
Parkgate, on the Wirral, I remember well, one could see
Wales, in the haze, a cross the bay, sheep and closed-
down factories. Cute fishing boat s with brown sail used
to dock here selling fresh shrimps, but the tide left one
day and didn’t come back; they can dredge, no point
though, there aren’t any shrimps left in the sea. I saw
this man dressed in yellow leaning against a red Jaguar,
looked prosperous, perhaps he was the lord mayor of
Hardcastle? There is a name that keeps enter my mind,
who is Tommy Steele, didn’t he used to be a singer?
Two ice-cream parlours Parkgate had, a line of people
outside one them the other was empty; me, a defender
of lost causes, walked into the deserted one, asked for
two scoops of strawberry ice-cream, too late, bile had
destroyed him and the ice was rock hard, a scoop fell
off and rolled on the floor, picking up fluff and dust.
There was a retirement home as well, asked for a place,
but as usual I was too late, the man in with the jaguar
lives there now, I live very far away and see Parkgate
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Sleepless in Portugal
Late night television, a group of middleclass people
discussing art and its funding, they are so very polite
but only listen to their own voices; people, who make
a living writing about poetry which sells better than
writing it; nevertheless they are my only company this
long night, one of the men tries to control the erection
he gets when looking at the nice woman in red dress.
I have turned the sound down no need to hear what
they are say, gentlefolk but I do wish there had been
a scruffy artist there as well, to livening the proceeding
up, but often artistic people are not nice they have
no patience, not really in a group of bright people who
have gone to university, have a degree in something or
other, and work in the talking industry.
Commercial break, I turn the sound back up, a smooth
talking man has a cure all pill, tells us the medical
industry tries to ignore his wonder drug because it will
make it redundant. Artful mendacity there is an absence
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poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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Shaving cream
Shaving Cream
On the day that yet another car bomb exploded
in Baghdad, I forgot to buy shaving cream and
had to go back to the shop, there is weariness
about bad news from Iraq. I also forgot to buy
a litre of milk and a goat cheese.
Four thousand US troops killed, which, after
five years of war, as an amazing small number;
but then, this is a war where civilians get to do
the dying.Six hundred thousand or near a million
dead, no one knows or cares, but it might end up
as being as great a crime as the holocaust:
Was it five or six million Jews who perished?
This is a number that concerns deniers greatly,
who are of the opinion that only about 2oo Jews
died, regrettably of typhus, on a train journey
between Poland and Russia.
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poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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