Autumnal Aura
Autumnal Aura
The fall month of October, in upper Algarve,
is still warm but with cooling evenings and
sunlight begins to fade earlier every day.
The sky is still blue, if paler than yesterday’s
and has white strands of clouds near its
horizon. Windless is this day but birds on
the roof, have left their nests flown south,
Africa I think, for a few month. They will be
back in March have their chicks and make
a lot of noise. The man from the forest has
delivered winter wood, wrote him a check,
gave him a whisky; so I’m ready for winter
but secretly wish these peaceful days will
stretch well into November.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Autumnal Light
Softly they walk on a day in October the old man
and sunlight amongst ageless olive trees planted
when his great grandfather was young.
On the track there is mark of hooves from flocks
of sheep that walk here daily on their way home
after grazing on the upland.
Bits of fleece on thorny bushes, black pellets
and the pungent aroma of the wooly backed
still lingers…
He sees the old cottage the roof has fallen
in and bushes grow through its floor, but
he doesn´t stop, it was all so long ago.
Light is fading wants to turn in, time to go
home for him too, autumn evenings are chilly,
and damp, no good for his chest.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Brook Of Reflection
The Brook Of Reflection
A thought, striking as a rare butterfly, sat on a twig
tried to catch it but in my hand it turned into fluff,
and I can no longer remember which colour it had.
The thought was a river I cupped my hands tried to
catch some wisdom, stem its flow and turn it into
a poem that flies like a butterfly
The rich are seen as successful and say banal things,
newspapers print their moth eaten views, we read
and thoughtlessly nod; so find me a new river then.
I wait for another thought, one that floats, like leaf of
fall in a brook, and tells of eternal truths that are as
beautiful as rare butterflies
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Dance Nocturne
Dance Nocturne
August night is an abyss hotter than the day
and the wind that blows was born in hell.
From open windows and their dark interiors
the primal scream of lovemaking,
wriggling bodies trying to produce a child
that like them soon will die, but first it has to
go to the ritual called love, which is but a primitive
urge to copulate the planting of a seed before
sinking back underground, spent, forgotten in
mass graves of boredom, decorated with flowers
that radiates deaths to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and
forever vanishes into an ancient forest while werewolves
sway to a Mexican dirge.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Shining Light
Shining Light
Sometimes light in Algarve is too sharp I can see
the lot at once, the future, past and the landscape.
All is white, have I been where I’m going, or I’m
coming back from where I have not been?
I sit in the shade under a carob tree and watch ants
going down a hole with bits of twigs preparing
for a nuclear holocaust, and the catastrophe that
befalls all groups of people sooner or later.
Light is no longer white but amber and a magazine
editor says I’m Danish, yet published my poem; it
doesn’t matter that I have lost my old identity, he
could have called me a Palestinian for all I care.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Bird Watching
Bird Watching
Two sparrows, on roof of my car, noisily chirped, five
more sparrows came, tweeted too and showed no debate
culture, then they flew off and left the couple to it.
One, the male, I think, flew off and left, I assume, her
alone; not for long, he came back peeped and left again;
did this three times, finally she flew off with him, but
she deeply sighed. A drama had passed, that I had seen
and judged with a human’s limited understanding of
the life of other spices. Bird dropping on the car roof,
I had witnessed a love story, good as any seen on TV,
and as afternoon soaps must, had ended blissfully.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Emerald Isle
The Emerald Isle
Sailing into Cork I saw green hills, the sea was jade,
I understood why Ireland was called the emerald island.
On the sheer slopes sheep grazed; chancers I thought
the slightest slip and they will fall into verdant waters.
Why not graze on the plateau be happy with modest
fodder if not as succulent as grass too unsafe to get at?
Sheep do fall sometimes they are rescued by a passing
voracious fishing vessels, and end up as Irish stew.
Cork was pretty port it had a no hasty feel back then,
it became a busy place ignoring the hazardous slopes,
but holy is economic progress, lush living for everyone.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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An Angel
An Angel…Or?
I knew as soon s she came in she was from
a place I hadn’t been… before. She was silent.
sat down and began some embroidery work,
a silk dress for a delightful nuptial.
By the entrance to a house we stood kissing,
the door was black as the entrance to hell,
and the ground was white as snow…her eyes
bottomless green, flickered in desire.
Search light, we had been caught in the glare
unbecoming lust, and ran to a bus shelter.
Silent rain like tears, knew I had to run away,
she wanted me to take the lift heavenward.
The elevator out of order, and her face was
lost in a miasma of the unremembered.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fear Of Flying Someday
Fear of Flying
It was a clear, cold day the sun was a sad
decoration vanity at its worst.
The sky was like after shave lotion with
a tinge of blue which stung a shaved face
with frosty bitterness.
I saw Amelia Earhart´s aircraft disappear
in the distance, only a doleful echo told me
of a tragedy about to happen…
On a lost atoll a bottle of aftershave balm
glints in the sun, perhaps belonging to her
navigator, as does a diamond earring that
shines pitifully on the clarity of gilded sand.
Look up on a still, pale day and you will see
her little airplane forever disappearing into
a hazy past of remembered dreams.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Conflicting Influence
Conflicting influence
Hearing silence my old man does when he slowly dance around
the kitchen floor thinking he’s alone. When I sit still I can hear
silence too. Noises and voices Louis Armstrong’s trumpet and
the drumbeat of distant wars. Some of them fought and some
waiting to be fought. And I hear the righteous defending a war
where millions will die and our way of life will forever be scared
by shame. People have lost their voice, because it drowned in
the cacophony of conflicting messages that seep into our mind
day and night. Overload, fuse gone, apathy. And my old man will
never hear the good silence again.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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