Pigeons
There are many pigeons in the Cascais evening park and
see one I remember, the one that trips stylishly around
looking for crumbs, it looks at me, to see if I´m eating.
In May it was a baby on my terrace trying out its wings,
one day it succeeded and flew off.
A pigeon doesn’t remember its childhood, so it doesn’t
has the burden of remembering infancy, blames no one
when things go wrong. Two women come and sit on my
bench, talk about offspring who will not listen; pity they
have not understood, like a pigeon mother, to let go.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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After The Wedding
After a Wedding
After the wedding when the happy couple
stood on the old church steps to have their
picture taken and a throng of people where
jousting to be in the frame too, I walked
around in the church and found in a corner
a white but dusty marble Virgin Mary.
Her eyes were demurely downcast: I said:
“We’re alone you can open your eyes now.”
Was it just my imagination, caused by my
longing to believe, that I saw an eyelid flutter
and a half smile play upon cold, dusty lips?
….Pale as limestone I rejoined the throng.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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What's In A Name
What’s in a Name?
Jesus had been thrown out of the café, he tends
to get laud and argumentative after wine.
Water into wine not a good idea.
Outside, he upended a few plastic tables, police
were called they drove him to the local station
put him in a cell at the back.
A cold cell after a few hours he was shivering
and they let him out he had a long walk home
to the cottage he shares with his mother
Jesus is a good lad, they all say so, and no one
but me is intrigued by his name, in this part
of the world it is a common forename.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Ancient Profession
The Ancient Profession
Now that prostitution in Norway, has been outlawed
those who turn tricks have to work harder than before,
some of them dress grandmotherly, wait at a crossing
for a man to help them over, and the where and when
are agreed upon. Authentically older women too have
been agreeably surprised never thought they were
going to be touched by a man, and they are not going to
tell. Alas all good things must come to an end, the law
is recruiting pensioned policewomen who do not fear
to go all the way to catch their man.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Just One More Cigarette...
It is evening they take him out of his cell and into
the walled court yard. An officer offers him a fag
he accepts, and smokes it slowly inhaling deeply.
The officer says, “don’t worry it will soon be over. “
Then they tie his hands behind his back, blindfold
him and place him against a pockmarked wall.
The officer asks if the prisoner, has a last word,
a message to the world or his family. The damned
shakes his head, a long silence, and a volley of fire.
Today, after being told by my doctor I’m an idiot,
I have stopped smoking.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Three Short Poems
Three short poems
An Echo of a Song.
As vapour trail of past dreams
slowly evaporates in cold air
of reality, new dreams are born
and cherished, till they too are
given leave to perish.
Winter Forest.
Days of twilight, winter cold and starlit.
Witches dance on coruscated snow, in
the dell, as silent trees bear witness to
nature’s cruel beauty.
The copy
Droplets of star’s tears on a green
ephemeral sky, moon is oxidized;
nights are ghostlier than the print
of the Chinese lady, on a dull wall,
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Curtain
Blank screen of doom find me wonderful words,
nothing fancy just words that have a resonance in
my mind and gladden my heart.
I remember a boy of fourteen, every morning at six
he milked, five cows, by hand, leaning his heads on
the cow´s womb he dreamt of Africa
Africa, but I met my wife she is from Congo, so you
may say I know Africa intimately but
that was not what the boy was dreaming of.
O, blank screen do not let me fall into banalities,
it is just I like to remember as much as I can
before the screen the curtain draws the screen.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Cat House
The Cat House
Morning in Aruba, the cock has crowed three times and
men get out of beds that have been slept in by hundreds
of other men. They are sad men, lost in thought what they
did in the night do not bring relief but shame.
Taxis are waiting to bring them back onboard; some are
so overwhelmed by the tardiness of it all that they need
rum & coke to drown the sense of self loathing.
In the court yard an old woman swipes the dance floor,
a cat sleeps in the cooling breeze, it and the old woman
know the same men will back at nightfall.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Economy Part 1
The Economy
Burning bed, the mattress, afire; under it I had two thousand Euro,
as banks can go belly up any time bolt their doors and call the law
to keep the screaming multitude at bay.
Too late, my poor man´s saving burnt to ashes. I shall not cry, soon
the euro will be quite valueless when 10.000 is worth ten pence,
and for that I can´t even buy an ice-cream.
I do regret I wasn´t a good consumer didn´t help the economy
by not using credit cards to buy stuff I didn´t need, I have failed
in my duty as citizen and now harvest devastation.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Vanishing Islands
Vanishing Islands
Classic sea, almost antique, slow swinging oars
rowing towards a balmy island with lazy palm trees.
Everything could have been so perfect, hadn’t been
for the rising sea and the diminishing shoreline.
There is a smoking mountain in the middle of
the island, soon fishermen will sit on cliffs and be
anglers, sing songs remembering times when their
island had a sandy beach; but for now oscillating oar
blade dips into liquid happiness, disturbing briefly
the azure sky that preens itself on an ocean it regards
as a mere mirror.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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