French, The Language Of Love
French, the Language of Love.
Darling, speak French to me when we make love, wicked words
I don’t understand, but have a whispering meaning of delight.
I stand before you with salutial erection, a soldier of love ready
to sacrifice myself for your subterranean pleasure.
Your wishes have to be expressed in French or the steed’s chase
will not react with proper force, It will think it’s time to go back
into the stable, hanging about, wondering what went wrong.
At the subway in Paris I was in the way of a woman who wanted
to exit, she swore at me, thinking it were words of love, I kissed
her and was arrested. But released, though when they understood
I was a foreigner, lost in the baffling ways of the French idiom.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fortunate Leaves
Fortunate Leaves.
Some leaves are dark jade and yellow, others so gleaming
pale green that you just now when they fall off trees they
will not rot on the ground but fly and join ocean, because
they are droplets of the seas that have tried life ashore for
a season, but they are glad to be back to marine life.
To ride the crest of a wave, to be a part of raw power, for
nothing can stop water from going where it wants.
Build dams and dikes it will keep the sea out for a while but
only to a great wave comes along and smashes it all. Yet it
was nice to be a leaf on an olive tree soak up the sun, to be
almost still, tickled by the summer breeze and see beautiful
butterflies, but ocean is their destiny it’s there they belong.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Transplant
The Transplant
You throb slowly and evenly today,
does it mean you have accepted your
fate that you at only thirty shall live
with an old man like me? Faithful, but
could you have done other wise?
My fear is having done this sacrifice
at such a tender age you might, when
reaching middle age, revolt, feel you
have wasted your time with me,
become bitter and self destructive.
I must warn, because I do love you,
(I even stopped smoking for you)
if you let me down you will be cast
into the wilderness of no life only
because you can’t dance anymore?
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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You Are What You Drink
The mare had a foal, but it still had to work plowing
a meager field. The foal, prancing about on thin legs
when we stopped for a rest it quickly drank from its
mother´s udder and there was pastoral harmony.
I thought about this when reading about a six year
old boy in India who drank milk from a female dog
that treated the child as one of her own. Of course
this had little to do with rural accord, but stark need.
I once suckled milk off a ewe, sweet milk I thought,
but grew up fearful of people and shy of aspiration;
be unseen in the world´s field of humility and graze
in peace. Hope the dog- boy will grow up with big
fangs unafraid growl at people who try to dominate
him and only respect what his inner voice tells him.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Islamic america
Islamic America
It happened in the years when vegans and anti car people were in
power in North America it was decided to outlaw the automobile.
Every driver had to drive off a cliff and into an asphalt pit. When
they got out of there, and since everybody in USA can drive, even
old women and children, the nation was tarred. It was noticed that
God, Jesus, his coteries of seraphs and the second layers of angels,
the cherubs were un-tarred. How can one worship the un-blotted?
People turned away from Christianity. As no image of Mohamed
existed it was decided he too had been tarred, but it had been
kept a secret. Overnight, Americans turned into virtuous Moslems
and USA became the most powerful Islamic nation in the world.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Envy
The Envy
They do not pay me well, in this café, where
I work, so I take a little food home and drink
a little wine, when I can, because all the chefs
I read about make much more money than me.
When a big shot, in the world of finance, gets
paid a million in bonus, he takes it but grumble
for in his circle, he knows no one who are paid
less then this, but many who are paid more
When I get my pension after cooking food for
fifty years, it will not be much and I know of
no one who get less than me, but plenty who
receive much more and that makes me bitter.
But it’s sweet to know that those who make
more money than me are rancorous too ‘cause
they know of many very rich people who have
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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September Rain
September Rain (sonnet)
Most days, on my way to the bar or grocery shop,
I walk past an old man who sits in the shade of
an oak, on a creaky sofa that has lost its place in
the lounge. I usually stop and talk to him, he can’t
remember me from one day to the next, tells me
the same story about his parents, and where he
grew up; Portugal of yore. He isn’t here today, only
the mantle, he wraps around himself when there
is a chill in the air, is flung on the old sofa; a zephyr
whispers that he will not be back. “Will I be that old?
I ask the waning sun. I sit on a sofa on the terrace,
a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, scan the sky,
in the vale where I live and my parents too lived,
we wait for September rain.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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As The Year Ends
As the Old Year Ends
This evening, the penultimate before New Year eve, I look out of the window
see an empty village road drying after rain. A lone outdoor lamp casts a bleak
illumination of houses gone grey by continuous precipitations; total darkness
would have been more merciful. Shuttered windows, silent despair every little
family cocooned in their own misery, but it is what they know and incestuous
are their dreams. An abject wind blows tries to make dead leaves and cigarette
butts dance for the sake of ennui. But then the wind dies too into a blanket of
unseen gloom of nothingness. The big Eve tomorrow, there will be dancing,
hilarity and music, but above all clamor a voice will whisper: “What is it all for? ”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Famous Tv Station
A Famous TV Station
She has the bland face of a Fox newscaster, not a hair
out of place; yes, and shapely legs too. Faithfully she
repeats the station’s political opinion, not a word out of
place. The male commentators are even worse as they
try to look intellectual, lies through their teeth but they
are well paid and careful of having an original thought
under their coiffeur heads. Like actors, in a Technicolor,
Cary Grant movie of middle class USA, a mono culture
that never existed. Voracious meat eaters with gigantic
white teeth which sparkle under studio light as fake pearls.
Yet for millions of viewers this is where they seek the news
and think they are served the truth. Is this what is called
the great American dream?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Man Called Anders
He sits in his cell, not allowed to read newspapers
or watch TV. The centre of his mind is the coldest
place on earth…. He gives, for now, no ground for
other thoughts, say, that he might have committed
an unspeakable crime. His mother has forsaken him
his father wishes he will have the sense to take his
own life. His cell is frosty blue, those who feed him
avoid eye contact. No hand reaches out to touch him,
and his former friends tell us he was a big nobody.
He cannot hear this he will not hear, he is the king of
his own mind and mustn’t stray from his chosen path.
Cosmic loneliness, if he, one day, wakes up from his
slumber of self delusion and sees how grotesque he is
there will be no one to embrace him and give succor.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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