Herr Hitler
Hitler, the Man Who Created Israel.
I have just looked at some picture of Hitler as a young soldier,
he wears a grey uniform walks in a grey street and buildings
are grey. It appears he and his contemporaries lived at a time
before colours were invented.
Looking at his youthful indistinct feature, there is absolutely
nothing about this man, the painter of pretty postcard, that
he had in him so much hate and a gift of oratory to go with it.
yes he brought colour ok, mostly blood red.
A movie about a stammering king has won an Oscar, I can’t
but think if Hitler had a bad stammer he would be laughed
off the stage and reduced to painting, say, houses; and Israel
would still be a Zionist’s dream.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Hex
The Hex.
Where the village lane meets the main road there was
an ugly olive tree that looked like two crippled old men
trying helping each across the road, petrified by cars,
I used to stop and talk to the tree old but still bore fruit;
now it has been chopped down and will end up as winter
wood. No. I’m not a tree hugger but it annoyed me that
it was cut down as it was not in any ones way.
An old woman came down the lane she had a long nose
with a big hairy wart on and a sack of twigs slung on her
crocked back. “Tell me dear woman, why was this tree
executed? “Because it was ugly looked like two old men
trying to help each other across the road”, she said and
toothlessly laughed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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New Year's Eve
New Year’s Eve.
New Years Eve at the hotel, a posh place my lawyer was there too
I thought of all the money I had paid him for my divorce.
Eight o’clock five hours to midnight it was like watching a kettle boil.
The wine, plenty of it helped, I soon joined the festivities. The food
wasn’t up to much not for all the money I had paid, my new wife told
me to shut up and enjoy myself. Then I got drunk and it was midnight.
My solicitor behaved like clown and danced like a demented monkey.
Three o’clock when we got home, “wasn’t a lovely party” my wife said.
This must have been the same time as Coptic Christians, in Cairo,
coming out of a church after midnight mass…were blown up.
.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Trap
The Trap
This the first dream, know I’m asleep but don’t
want to I try to wake up but cannot move.
Injured by panic I try to move but my body will not
obey me immobile trapped in my body.
Open your eyes, try roll onto the floor grasp, try
touch the wall, there is no wall space is intense.
Finally I get up walk into the living room, but sleep
Is like a boa constrictor around my neck
I fall and fall through the endless universe, fly too
but not to where I want to go.
Pain has awoken me, I see light it is dawn and
walk on to the terrace, another narrow survival
Over the ridge I spy the sun, my only true lover
and I sing a tune from a Gary Cooper movie: “Do not
forsake me, o my darling…”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Assessment
The Assessment
My copy pen fell to the floor I bent down to pick it up
now I feel dizzy. I came to this country, decades ago
to write, many pens have fallen on the floor- although
I do not write with a pen but use a word processor.
A pen is a crutch and to make droll shapes on sheets
of paper; a thousands sheets filled with doodles while
waiting to write something sensible on the processor;
a mad publisher has shown interest in them.
Twenty years feels a very long time, twenty more and
I’ll be ninety bet I will not be able to pick up a pen from
the floor then. Now I wake up in the night and a steady
hum tells me I have wasted my time scrawling, a book
of scribble how is that for an epitaph?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Death Of An Old Lady
Funeral of old Lady
The old lady died, yes she is thoroughly dead
at five, before first light was about to shine
on Lisbon’s sky. Skin covering tired bones, her
body free to rot and her soul has flown away.
Tomorrow they will come from afar women
dressed in black and wearing hats. Men too
In somber suits and black ties, talk quietly;
safely away from emotional women.
When last hymn has been sung, they will
walk away and leave the old lady amongst
the dead, but later meet at a restaurant.
Bereavement makes mourners so hungry
So we lift our glasses and remember her
well, this is not a day to say she was a bit
of a pain, a selfish woman obsessed with
herself. Burial is not a time for veracity.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Intimate Relationship
Intimate Relationship
Saw the rusty old tramp-ship on the glittering
blues sea mowing cumbersome eastward.
My god, I knew her, more than many, had spent
two years in her hot interior and long nights
listening to her reassuring heart beats.
When sea was rough she rode the waves like
a swan, shuddered sometimes as to get sea off
her deck. Here she was again, under alien flag,
disappearing slowly as a dream remembered.
Wondered if she was on her way to Caribbean?
She liked it there, warm water good for her hull.
And like me she knew every little port, she could
birth blindfolded. Glad to see her again, yet sad
feel as I betrayed her for leaving; pitiable she, not
anchored in the inlet of peace by now.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Vengeance
The Vengeance
There is no war it is all happening on TV, for our
entertainment, I look out of the window and see
no dead bodies, no blood or bombed buildings,
or soldiers prancing about, except Pedro coming
back after hunting rabbits. He hates rabbits since
one chased him and bit his bum, he was twelve
at the time but the indignity made him malicious.
He hunts rabbits in the morning, they hear him
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Broken Window
Broken Window
“Stand aside, the shop keeper impolitely said,
paying customer first.” Mother and I stood aside
and waited it took long busy now before Yule,
she had a card from the social to purchase boots
and jumpers and I was getting fidgety and upset.
Finally we got our stuff in a brown paper bag,
time was hard fancy papers was for those who
had money. I was seven but the humiliation was
gnawing a big hole in my guts, mother said:
“Beggars can be choosers” I was silent.
The local paper reported about a broken shop
window, oddly nothing was stolen, I smiled
proud of my mother, she had a job nearby
cleaning the office of a tropical fruit importer,
in a good mood now she smoked a cigarette.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Long Journey
The Long Journey
It’s evening the traffic is slow in front of me
I’m a part of a ruby necklace, can’t escape.
So tired falling asleep. A seagull with peeked cap knocks
on the window, carry on.
Across a long bridge I just know it will fall dawn
an earthquake, thousands of cars falling into the sea,
so unjust we’ll drown together whilst fighting
for something that floats and we can hold on to.
And then the rain it never stops, cars driving hundred miles an hour,
water planning no breaks. Will I ever reach Algarve?
Stop at a cafe, windows cry and I have no words of comfort,
nothing I can say to stop their misery.
I’m hungry but can’t afford to eat, all money gone to petrol.
Will I ever get home?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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