Widows And Warriors
Widows and Warriors
On the plateau a file of women, all in black,
war widows waiting to be given tea, bread
and rice from two men in a pickup truck.
The men spoke hoarsely, scurrying them on,
found their work shameful, would rather have
been up on the mountain fighting, thought
the women superfluous. They had given birth
to sons who now fought in war and to daughters
married to warriors on the mountain.
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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Love Is A Story
Love is a Story
It seems incredible now but once I was in love,
inflamed blood rushed thru my veins threatened
to drown my heart in sweet delusions, but we
both agreed, at the time, that never in the history
of man had anyone loved as us.
Summer nights are not for sleeping tired I was
when October came with cold, sober precipitation
and a north westerly that reduced the rapid river
of ardour to a mere trickle of lust and my words of
love rang hammy and theatrical.
Tears, a tub full I’m quite certain had I had sense
to bath in them I would have been assured eternal
youth. I kicked myself, fled. A fine November dawn
I saw Recife; fell in love again, but this time, alas,
with an irony damaged heart.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Painter And The Pandemic
A Painter and the Pandemic
An old lady in our village died last night… flu,
but since it was not the swine variety no one took
notice, the world press will not come here, we’ll
not see our houses on the TV. There are many
disappointments, Amazon floods, many dead, alas,
not from The Flu, survivors can sit on mud banks
without face masks, and wait for all we care.
Gauguin cut Van Gogh’s ear off, at a whore house,
then he went off to Hawaii painted native girls with
big bosoms and flowers behind well formed ears.
Now we know why. A pity none of the women who
worked there, didn’t write down their memoirs, so
a relative could proudly announce that my great, great,
great grandmother knew them both.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Unheard Music
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Eternal Screen
Eternal Screen
It`s too hot to go for a walk, I stare at a blank screen
Its afternoon, in my cabin and silence is intrusive,
a low one toned hum of doom.
Intense white screen, but when looking closer I see
myriads of tiny black squares, a mask that will not
let go of its dark secret.
I try to rip it open with a volley of words, but they
bunch back, and reduced to banality of what have
been overstated a million times.
Exhausted I erase words send them into the bleak
world of Delete, a place where surplus words and
emails are sent to shuffle in obliquity.
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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First Poem
First Poem
This is the first page of poems that have yet to be written, but I will
not think about it. It is like crossing the plateau of Alentejo I can see
the tarmac road miles ahead of me stretching into infinity and I know
will not get there alive I must stop before falling off a cliff of oblivion.
Writing is like arithmetic instead of digits it is about putting words
together hoping they add up, harmonize. And two and two is not
four. I’m a composer of silent instruments and I try to tell you what
I hear, but how can I do that without a blaring trumpets to catch your
attention? I can only grasp what is near to me, I know what Is near
to me is universal. Life is not complicated, it is about being loved.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Bin Men
Bin -Men
In the late sixties there was a down turn in shipping
I was broke and unemployment, benefit meager.
From I was fifteen I had always been in catering and
before that I was milking cows, and now I got a job
as a bin man. In the back of restaurants and cafes
bins where open and attracted rats, black and brown;
we wore gloves but they were still jumping about
and as the foreman said it took too long killing them.
The job was easy enough we started in the morning
and finished about noon, I went to the communal
bath for a long shower, but I still smelled of rats and
rotting food. A call came and I was needed in
the merchant navy…but for my fellow bin men this
was their honest toil and they were great mates.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Texas
Texas.
Texas was for me a magic word, to be a cowboy, herd cattle
and in the evening, ride into town and sort out the baddies.
Mind I wanted to be a sheriff, but first I had to learn, how to
use a lasso. I jumped my ship in Houston, took a bus inland.
As light fell I saw a big ranch the bus stopped and let me off.
I knocked on a door told the rancher I wanted to be a cowboy.
He gave me t. bone steak and let me sleep in the bunk house.
At dawn the sheriff was there to take me back to Houston.
He wore Stetson and let me wear it till we reached the docks
and I had to go onboard, to cook lunch for the hungry crew.
When asked where I had been, I said I had visited my uncle
who has a ranch at a place called Panhandle.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Roma
The Roma
Roma my beloved people, millions of your kind died during
the Nazis brutal regime, no memorial was erected for you.
Disliked and shunted from pillar to post, your way of life,
so different from ours. When you cross a devastated Europe
It makes no difference to you as you always have lived in
city dumps and on derelict land. Sing for me Roma of you
longing for peace and acceptance that was not given to you
when Europe was rich. The land bound will envy you
because they cannot do as you. Their need is to occupy
a piece of mother of earth and say; all this is mine.” They
cannot let go and be free. Sing for me Roma tell me how it
feels to be hunted and despised simply because you chose
your own way in live.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Dayat The Beach
A Day at the Beach
Lunch at a restaurant near the sea, sun drenched and blue,
“I couldn’t take my eyes of you, ” as the song goes. Twice
before the sea had tried to drag me under, but now it was
friendly and I could not resist its pull.
Friends warned, me do not go into the sea, I disregarded
their plea stripped naked and began my descent. Police
came, they spoke softly, had big towels hiding my nudity.
They dressed me like I was a shop window doll, and since
I was seriously sober gave me the car keys, they had my
name and I was warned not to visit this beach anymore.
It was the 17 of May Norway’s day, but they had all gone
home and I was alone singing the national anthem on
Nirvana’s darkening strand
poem by Oskar Hansen
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