Forgivness
Forgiveness.
It was dawn in Calcutta; I had spent the night in
a bar with no name, when I came upon a hospital
in a side street, a place for the dying. Two nurses
in white uniforms with blue borders - they were
nuns- twins, poke marked, elderly, had prominent
noses and dark penetrating eyes. They led me to
a room were an ancient woman lie dying on a mat,
she smiled held out her hand and asked me what
had taken me so long? I told her of my endless
journeying, all the obstacles in my way and how
I regretted my lateness. She smiled glad that she
could see me a last time; then she died. Twilight,
long shadows a day was ending and I had been
forgiven for not knowing I was loved and missed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Bag Of Inconsequence
I remember tiny things picking up a burnt match
from a floor wondering who threw it there.
A May day in St. Malo, I saw an old man crying
streaks of tears down rumpled chin.
Shy bluebells lost amongst tall trees, yet they
made me think of prayer wheels in Tibet.
Glow of coal in the grate, it was early morning
and the road outside was frosty white.
A summer night up north I was waiting for night
it never came...and then it was morning.
In dead rabbits eyes I saw the warm August sky,
I, happy to alive, yet saddened.
When the Pacific Ocean was a mirror of eternity
And time ceased, yet lingered like a kiss.
Waving flags, military band and bloody parades,
I have long forgotten why and where.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Toy Story
Two athletic men tried to wrestle a paving stone from each
other, I tried to take the stone away from them thought it may
be used as weapon, I was as inept, peace negotiator usually are.
They fought about a sweet, blind girl she had a pony in her flat,
as her friend, but neighbours' complained about the smell and
hay blowing around in hallways. The blind girl appeared, after
eye surgery, she could see again told the fighting men they could
keep the pony or make into salami. The men dropped the stone
shocked by the girl´s callousness, now that she could see she was
more interested in boys than in an incontinent animal. The pony
was given to the local golf club and trained to find lost balls.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Beautiful Song
A Beautiful Song. (Ink Spots)
“I don’t want to set the world on fire” what a lovely song.
But I’m disturbed by sparrows, sit in my orange tree and
make a racket, so much for bird song. Out on the terrace
I stretch out my arms pretend to be an eagle, they fly off.
But they soon return realising I’m not much of an eagle.
I throw pebbles at them, terrified miniature mountains,
that only get to fly when someone, say, me throws them.
I still hear the sparrows sit in my neighbour’s orange tree,
argue about territories and no- fly- zones. A flurry of angry
wings, what is this a civil war? High above on the blue sky,
a bald eagle circles. “I don’t want to set the world on fire.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fruit Rats
Fruit Rats
Nature in the vale sleeps today last
night a storm raced through it, twigs
and almond petals litter lanes, birds
sit with heads under wings, wide open
Algarvian sky a few clouds sails slowly
about and the sun warms my face.
This is a tilled landscape, like a stroll
in a city park only less noisy, wolves,
foxes, brown bears and boars have
gone, I stand near a sign that warns
of cattle crossing, but I haven’t seen
a ruminant around here for years.
Flocks of dumb sheep usually graze
under the olive trees, if not now, and
I’ll not tread on wet grass; it saddens
me to see oranges fall unpicked to
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Summer Night
A Summer Night.
A Bergman movie had an old man running in
the hall senseless, gripped by an irrational fear
of death. I sat by the bed pearls of sweat ran
down my butter coloured body, summer, but
all can hear is the ticking of the kitchen clock,
to witness a day’s passing gave me no pleasure
this insistent march towards timelessness and
there is nothing to hold on, a moment’s respite,
or love to assuage the vortex’s relentless terror.
Dog awakes, hears steps too light for my ears,
a night visitor and I’m alone and without a god.
No, not here, the cur loses interest goes back to
sleep. Night is an enemy; the shift is nearly over,
I walk out on the terrace and wait for the day.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Magician.
The man in the -white as snow- thobe looked like a statue of
the saviour, as seen in protestant churches. He walked amongst
people at the farmers market, gently spoke about this and that,
maybe the price of cucumbers? What do I know?
Soon he had a fan base; people liked him and asked questions
that had more to do with metaphysical reasoning than the cost
of agricultural products.
This disturbed authorities, was the stranger sowing seditious
thoughts in people’s mind? And his thobe it repelled dust and
was always clean?
He was arrested and put in a police cell. When detectives came
to interrogate him he wasn’t there, only his thobe, which, the label
on the inside, read: made in China.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Mandrake
Mandrake.
If you have what you need, food to eat and roof
over your head, the rest is frills and rude greed.
So now we hate bankers they offered us a dream,
endless credit never ending prosperity; they had
dream also to be the sages of their time, silk suited
men who had an answer to everything, of course,
they also wanted to be a little richer than you.
No one expect wisdom and cryptic words about
the economy, falling from bankers pale lips, but
wait, they have not gone away, easy credit will be
back and we can buy that ten bedroom room villa
we don’t need. Once again we’ll listen to bankers,
yes, you and I; just like them we have big dreams
and will go on believing in fairytales.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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On A Sunny Sunday
On a Sunny Day, You can See Forever.
The u-boat that cast anchor on the silky beach of Albufeira
the crew was dressed in German world war two uniforms,
bathers thought they were actors in a movie.
The captain came ashore he wanted to call Lisbon, to his
embassy, only the number didn’t exist anymore. He wanted
to surrender, his crew hungry and tired.
A kind barman gave the captain a cold beer, he drank it
greedily and asked what year this was.2011.
“My god” he exclaimed we have landed in a wrong century.
He walked back to his u-boat, a neat man every bit a hero.
The submarine, rusty, looking as it had been at the bottom of
the sea for ages, hoisted anchor, sailed into the blue yonder.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Summer in the Bay
The bay of Cascais is empty today no ships at anchors
the sea azure and flickers of illusive gold coins sought
by those who seek an endless summer.
The town is oddly tame, from my vantage point I see
swimming pools, they look as delicate, clear tears of
a child who wanted to read clouds formation on a sky
blue as the sea. He often looks up, sees elephants,
castles and grazing sheep, today there is nothing but
ennui, it makes him sad. He wonders if sky and sea
once were one and was torn apart by a petulant god
who wanted to swim, sail and fish for his own delight.
Look, white clouds from the east, and afar he sees
a Russian schooner sail into the bay, it has red sails
and will cast anchor at sunset.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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