Home Truths
Seeking a Truth
The sewers under the abortion clinic
is where successful rats live and only
the strongest survives.
From the bland food of suburbia and
narrow minded excrements, unwilling
given back to the drains and nature.
These big rats have survived to sit by
the top table and be respected as those
who deserves a prize for endurance.
They live on sludge of fetuses, tiny fingers
small, beating hearts; also, clean livers;
and the rats grow and reason as humans
Rich rats now have an army of lesser
rats to defend them, nothing last always,
but for some it ended before it began.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Rainbow Snow
Rainbow snow
Once I saw rainbow snow falling like a carpet woven by angels
with time on their lily pale hands. A white winter hare sat on
its haunches taking in this strange sight. There are men with
shotguns lurking in the woods, farmers who wait for spring to
plough dark soil and plant spuds.
The hare made a jump of death, now a stew and the braves spit
pellets on a plate. Snow ate the rainbow and I saw heavy boots,
the hare looked small. In the forest a big tree soundless fell and
a squirrel lost its winter larder. Red fur on saintly snowfall;
do they eat squirrels in Norway?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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God's Little Acre
God’s Little Acre
On a land abandoned by man and behind
an ancient stonewall I saw a Frisian cow.
Not many of those around here, I walked
over to have a look, the ruminant was now
a boulder. I touched it, still warm; looked
up and around, someone was ribbing me.
Walked off looking nonchalant, but quickly
turned to have another look, the big stone
had turned into a grazing Frisian again and
drab olive trees had silver leaves.
I smiled and shook my head, this ongoing
joking between us, I’m old enough to keep
this a secret and, anyway, it is not easy to
talk about shadowboxing.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Country Road
A Country Road
I sat on the milk-ramp by a road that had
yet to be covered in black, weird asphalt.
Sunday, the sky was eternally blue, could
when I stood up just, see the ocean it was
azure too. Fed up now, but I didn’t want
to leave before I had seen a drifting cloud
across the immaculate sky.
Saw a tall-ship cross the sea; for a time
it balanced on the horizon, sailed upside
down till it sank into a void. Fell asleep,
awoke just as the sun disappeared too;
a car stopped, driver offered me a lift,
but I imperially waved him off, wanted
to keep my reveries a little longer.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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To Be Alone
To Be Alone
Solitude brings peace but not for long, being alone brings
restiveness, a longing for a voice even if it speaks banal
utterances. Silence doesn’t make a man whole he needs
to hear voices, to make sure we are not alone in a world
full of noises that means nothing for the basic needs of
daily life. Simple things like “what’s on telly darling? ”
if we do not listen carefully we lose love behind words
of domestic murmour. If we lose the ability to listen out
for the ordinary we lose the big picture, our remoteness
becomes agonizing, like a constant hum of melancholy.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Unplanted Land
Unplanted Land
Things made by man never impressed me, but the fallow land,
where I live, which is going back to nature’s way does impress.
On my walks I see how each plant strive towards the light, one
may say, as man seeks god, but here it is not about being better
or more powerful, it’s just nature. That’s way I see Eifel tower
as a symbol of power, pride and vanity. But in the back of my
mind an unpleasant thought arises: could it be that wars are
a natural cause? Nature’s way of insuring that only the strong
survives? That peace is like fallow land, beautiful but useless?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Festivity
The Festivity
The party has ended they have all gone home, the house sighs,
I open windows cooling air clears away the smell of perfume
and full ashtrays. Wine glasses everywhere on tables, shelves
on the floor. Empties have to be thrown in the bin, and glasses
have to be cleaned and put back in the cupboard. Got to do it
now, I don’t want to be faced with this task tomorrow morning.
I’m glad they came to my day; glad to be alone also; sad too.
I’m one year older and time seems so short, the ocean of life is
not endless and the horizon ends just beyond where the sun
goes down.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Odium
The Odium
Dead roses in a vase on my desk I moved
them away and remembered seeing my
brother, through a door ajar, getting up from
his chair, open the drawer where my pipe
collection was, and break them one by one.
A strange smile played upon his lips, and
I said nothing, didn’t know he hated me so.
He was the one with many friends, he was
the one who sat in the middle of the room
telling jokes at my expense while I sought
the corners. When he died, the chapel was
full of his friends the spoke so well of him,
but I sat there dry eyed all I could think of,
was my bloody meerschaum pipes
poem by Oskar Hansen
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August Night
August Night
Black, starless late August sky, a sliver of moon,
golden scythe mowing down the old, harvest
time. They had forgotten to close windows and
chill will settle in old lungs, spitting of blood.
Church bells toll the day is hot and gives nothing
away, the old priest is still on holiday, the new
one is clumsy, hasn’t had a bath and a shave for
days; unspoken murmur of discontent.
The cleric sweats, there is a smell of brandy, one
of the church’s rejects? But they do take care of
their own. This isn’t swine flu, nothing to report,
just old people dying as they must.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Real Art
Real Art
I woke up a blue neon light, outside my hotel room,
kept lightning up my space, I looked out and saw
a man in a cafe sitting by the counter eating a burger,
he had hat on and looked ca 1948.
Knew I was in an Edward Hopper painting but didn’t
want to be a part of his bleak cityscape of lone men
who live in cheap hotels and drink coffee in a cafe,
which clientele are lost souls like me.
I splashed water in my face adjusted my tie put my
hat on and walked out, a cab drove by looking for
a fare, I opened the cafe’s door, the man with hat had
gone, drank coffee and ate a doughnut.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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