Luxury Liners
A crew of thousands mostly
low paid men and women
who works long hours
for little reward.
How to train them to be
competent seafarers?
Add four thousand passengers
who know little of the perils of the sea.
It takes so little a fire in the engine room
that cannot be stopped;
a navigational error?
I was a seafarer but I would never
dream of joining those floating palaces
of restaurants and nightclubs and
trendy officers who are chosen for their
looks and not sturdy ability.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Fragility Of Love
The fragility of love
Only angels and butterflies should write love poems.
When elephants, giraffes and gruff sailors try to,
they sink into the mire of unfinished thoughts not
clarified, hazy sentimental longings and clumsy
footwork. The ungainly trying to dance to a tune of
love that confuses them, leaving behind deep wounds
in the delicate soil of adoration that will never heal.
Or worst of all, the ultimate shame, to have ones
declaration of love turned into a folklore joke.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Zero
The power of nothing always wins
it is the end of time no one can fight that.
Dictators shiver in their beds
This tenuous hold on power slowly dripping away
Slipping out of weak hands
Nothing, the word reverberates in their mind,
I had it all why can I not keep it?
The balcony, jubilation they try to believe
They are loved by the people.
The whispering voice, a cry in the night
In cosmic time a bullet flies slowly, but it always
Hits its mark... on it is written: Nothing is yours.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Road Works
Road Works
The loose pebbles off the road I picked
were cold and unwilling, but as they
warmed in my palm they thawed and
when I opened my hand they were sand
of time and told a story of a future strand
washed by swells of seas not yet born.
Life lines in my hands are mere blinks
when measured by cosmic seconds, yet
worriedly I asked: “shall I not be there
and witness a birth? ” This silence, so
telling, is free of sentimentality, but it
whispered about blameless perpetuity.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Insect
Insect.
On my blue lined writing pad a tiny insect walks,
it appears lost and hesitates before crossing a line,
lost in this vast wilderness of the unwritten.
I try to blow it off the paper, but somehow glues
itself to the paper and will not budge.
I cannot touch it tiny as it is I will surely squash it.
Nothing I can do for now, leave it to its own devise,
go watch TV. When I returned it has gone, a sheet
of paper with nothing written on is a lonely place
and has no story to tell.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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False Spring
False Spring
End of September is a strange interlude
in Algarve´s countryside.
Flowers suddenly bloom and yellow grass
turns green, for a few weeks it looks like
spring before sinking back to winter gloom.
The cork tree, dark and nude its dress has
has been turned into bottle stoppers and
and no leaves protect its misery.
Still it is looking inwards pretend not to be
there while waiting for spring, when
my almond three strews pink snow flakes
on the sandy lane and life begins again.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Maids.
Yesterday I saw an old fashion milk maid
coming out of the cowshed she carried
a pail of milk in her left arm, the grip so
firm fingers used to squeezing cows long
teats twice a day… and she was followed
by five cats with erect tails….
She is the last of a vanishing group of stout
women who smell of cream and honey.
She had an open freckled face and sunlight
danced on her Monroe lips; too late now
for me, milking machines quite obscene,
a Fata Morgana? When I blinked she vanished.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Caribbean Night
Tropical night, starlit, if I recall rightly; there was
sliver of a golden moon also. We drank beer too,
the sea is an enormous waste bin, plop, plop.
Someone brought guitar, nights like this ought to
have music, the gentle murmour of voices stilled.
The guitar player wasn't any good, but for awhile
we sat politely listening to his pathetic attempts.
His friend got up, threw the instrument overboard.
We drank more beer, listened to our own dreams;
mine was about a guitar playing dolphin.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Daughter
The Daughter.
Daughter, of the police officer who wore black riding boots,
was shining them, a call came he had been killed in traffic
accident. She put polish and brush into a cupboard no longer
a slave of a father who used boots as mirrors in the morning
when shaving, and if he couldn´t see clearly beat her with
a leather strap. Father in his coffin, she polished his medals
he looked grand in death. But for the daughter, of the officer,
each medal reminded her of the leather lash.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Islamic Legacy
Islamic Legacy?
The great Mohammed, a man of peace?
His words has been hijacked by zealots
busy blowing up people in the name of
Allah. These extremist s often young men
Egged on by elders, believe in a heaven
of virgins for their delight, this tells
us non believers that religions are bad
for your health. We must strongly resist
these militants who claim they speak on
behest of a god that only exist in minds
filled with hatred of those who do not
share their violent and doomed faith.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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