A Date Of Misfortune
A Date of Misfortune
The bus was late it was raining when she alighted…
my temper was moody, since it was late the kitchen
at the café was closed, but they still had slices of
“black forest gateau, ” we had that with white wine
because the waiter refused to serve red wine with
a gateau; she drank the whole bottle and got giggly.
Going to my place, we stopped an outdoor kiosk
selling hotdogs, I ate two with mustard on, since she
disappeared throwing up in the back of the stall.
She refused to come home with me I walked her to
the bus station where she caught the last one home
to her parents.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Collective Punishment
Collective Punishment
A bird farmer had a stroke, paralyzed saw
himself being watched by a Plymouth hen,
it sat on the sill moving its head sideways
as birds tend to do. When satisfied that
the man was lame it jumped on to his bed,
pecked and slurped up his eyes like they
should be soft boiled eggs, then left.
The farmer lived, but since he could not
see or find the eye eater, he ordered all
birds and their eggs destroyed, and hen
houses bulldozed; alas, a few birds escaped.
The farmer planted sunflower on his land,
the survivors thrive at the edge of it, one
of them is a big, red Plymouth hen.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Town's Buffoon
The Town’s Buffoon
He sat fishing in the town’s small lake, too much
kindness and stale breadcrumbs had polluted
the water and fish had chocked to death; mind,
ducks looked happy as did rotund rats lurking in
the undergrowth by its bank. Someone felt sorry
for the fool, put two trout in his basket and said:
“I say, my man you have caught two fine fishes! ”
The clown arose, reeled in line, hook and sinker,
walked home; where he fried his catch, listened
to tomorrows weather forecast on the radio,
diced carrots and peeled potatoes- fed his fat cat-
and chuckled to himself for no reason at all.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Nice Middle Class Family
A Nice Middle-Class Family
I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.
Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Norwegian Poem
Norwegian Poem
Stormy night lesser stars were torn off
their heavenly anchorage and splashed
into the ocean, spindrift, ships ran on to
reefs and in the Ragnarock human voices
went unheard and sailor died in silence.
Black sky stars retreated into the safety
of the galaxy, the moon and sun too and
the winter night is endless, and a hush
fell on an earth that looked like a snowball
on a slag heap till spring came and sheep
fearlessly grazed on steep hills fazing
western seas on grass fertilized by futile
cries from bodies slashed to fodder for crabs
that grew big that year.
Ragnarock. “Doomsday”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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To Be And So On
To Be or…
The swan on the lake doesn’t know it is a swan,
they say. How do they know? A swan may look
at us and say to another swan “Darling humans
don’t who they are.” Quite right my lovely, they
are daft that way” (swans have lot in common
with actors, the lake is their stage and we are
their adoring audience) I know that because Tom,
the only actor I have met in the flesh, called me
darling, well, not only me but everyone he spoke
to. Tom died no one calls me darling anymore.
We only think we know ourselves, if we really did
it would be too scary to know that inside us lurks
a monster.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fado Singer
The Fado Singer
Our visitor was ninety two and could see far into the past
and into a future that held no trepidation.
Unaided she got up and sang us a Fado about love that
never lasts and the sorrow of defeat...
Melancholy, that’s Fado for you, but it’s also about how
sweet love is, and the art of acceptance
She lives in the shadow land of an impending ending
and what is new and timeless.
When she left she beckoned for me to kiss her, I bent down
to touch her cheek, but she kissed my loveless lips.
I was enamoured, and her eyes was clear as heaven;
a woman is forever a woman even at ninety two.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Parody Song
Parody Song for Lute and Harp
The cobbler who mended the princess´s shoes
Fell in love with her feet and declared his love.
But the princess was quite chocked, said…no.
Sad cobbler sat in his shop repairing waders,
Farmer clogs and polished officers riding boots
The cobbler who mended the princess´s shoes.
The princess had shoes to repair, sent a servant,
But the cobbler needed her feet to make a fit.
He fell in love with her feet and declared his love.
He mended her shoes touched her ankles to make
Sure the shoes fit and the princess´s was thrilled
Made him a courtier of her dainty ankles and feet.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Christmas in in Lisbon
Christmas in Lisbon (1974)
The day before Christmas the Atlantic was in a frenzy
it was with relief when we turned starboard and met
the softer water of Tagus.
We birthed far from town, on a double Decker Bus
I had bumpy drive into town. I good meal and wine,
just sting sitting there reading newspapers.
Rang my wife to hear a friendly voice, she asked if I
was drunk since I sounded so chirpy. Put down the phone
Drank some more wine and aimlessly walked about.
Picked up an cushy prostitute, needed a warm body
next to mine, In the morning I took a taxi back and
a new long, laborious shipboard day began.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Tin Of Sardines
A tin of Sardines.
Mother by an assembly line putting tiny sardines into tins,
a machine did the rest, a squirt of oil and a lid stamped on.
Sardines side by side, in total darkness, wait to be eaten.
But first of all the sardines had to be smoked, the smoker
my mother’s lover, he visited her every Sunday afternoon,
and I was sent out to find a place that sold ice cream, even
when it rained. Rusting sardine cans, littering the wayside,
don’t walk barefoot in the grass at summer time. Mother
by an assembly line, putting sardines into tins, the smoker
had another girlfriend now and I got no Sunday ice cream.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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