Long Way Home Long Way Home

Walking down an alien street a miserable day in February,
thought he was dreaming asked what am I doing here.
The buildings and people are not as he remembered as
a child. He tried to cross the street but cars kept coming.
A woman took his arm and helped him to cross.
They told him he had lived here for twenty years but
told him in English as he didn't understand the language
these strange people spoke. Tired he sat down at
pavement café, a man asked him what he wanted… he didn't
now so the kind man brought him coffee.
I must find my way home, he said to himself, but I don't know
where it is. Then he remembered that his mother was dead,
he had been asleep, and as he slept the world changed and
he was lost in a future that was not his.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Crocodile

The crock

The small lake in the vale is muddy brown and
I see what looks like an uprooted tree floating
in the middle, the tree disappears and the water
ripples like it suddenly feels cold. There has
been rumours about sheep disappearing when
grazing near the lake but since there is a good
road nearby, rustlers have been blamed; mind,
dogs too have vanished and no self-respecting
thieve can possible be interested in our motley
canines. The breeze that made the water ripple
has died out and in sharp spring sunlight I can
see the tree again, but it seems to be lower in
the water. The lake gets smaller and browner
every year less rain falls now then in the past,
a few years hence it will be a piece of dry land
and a dusty crocodile.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Nursing Home Blue

Nursing Home Blues

I sent mother to a nursing home, she didn´t want
to go but I ignored her wishes, we often do that
when concerning old people, we say it is for their
own good, but the truth is I didn´t know what
else to do. Mother became quite rebellious they
called me from the home she was throwing food
about and demanded, when she evacuated, that
an assistant come and dry her bum.

Wanted to go home, there was no home she had
lived in a rented flat and someone else lived there.
When she knew she she felt betrayed, her silence
was damning. She stopped eating, gaunt, a skeleton
before death came as a relief. Now that I´m old too
families telling me I should not ride on my scooter
in case I might fall off…like should I care.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Spring For Some

Man in Market Town

It is a big door shiny white and wide, isn't

used much, twice a day when he goes out

shopping and when returning; if anyone

rings the door bell it is usually the gas man.

There are times when he opens the door at

night going to a bar or to buy love bought

and consumed in cheap hotel rooms; a need

[...] Read more

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Forgotten Dictator

Saddam Hussein you didn’t see they played you for a fool, king
today because it suited them, then surplus of requirement;
they hanged you from the rafters as you should be a common
Baghdad thief. They let you strut about dressed in uniform and
all, and you didn’t detect their sniggering voices when they
called you” your Excellency.” You knew in the end, but then it
was too late, yet you made them see how to die with dignity.
Had you been less ambitious you could still be selling cigarettes
by the oil docks and not be reduced to an historical footnote;
and your sons could been selling fake Swiss watches, condoms
and illegal whisky. A proper New Jersey gangster family be, in
the Middle East, eating goat chops every Sunday afternoon.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Dictator

Saddam Hussein you didn’t see they played you for a fool, king
today because it suited them, then surplus of requirement;
they hanged you from the rafters as you should be a common
Baghdad thief. They let you strut about dressed in uniform and
all, and you didn’t detect their sniggering voices when they
called you” your Excellency.” You knew in the end, but then it
was too late, yet you made them see how to die with dignity.
Had you been less ambitious you could still be selling cigarettes
by the oil docks and not be reduced to an historical footnote;
and your sons could been selling fake Swiss watches, condoms
and illegal whisky. A proper New Jersey gangster family be, in
the Middle East, eating goat chops every Sunday afternoon.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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the phantom of Genoa

The Phantom of Genoa
Along the docks of Genoa a man with shoulders bent walks,
he is thin and pale it is as he hides under his winter coat.
It can get very cold in Genoa, but for him winter is everlasting.
Few people recognize him now, those who do look away
from this huddled figure of cowardice. But there are also those
who avoid him because they see in him a mirror of themselves,
humiliations and weaknesses buried deep within their soul.
Once he had been a popular captain on a cruise liner loved and
admired by passengers and crew alike, but tragedy struck and
he failed them, shamed his nation and worst of all himself.
“Vada a bordo Cazzo” shouted at him whenever he appeared
in public. Unforgiven he walks night streets, he is our ghost.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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She Used To Sing

She Used to Sing.

A carafe of water fills the stomach and no organs are disturbed,
yet it is unclear like a mirror without a timbre.
She drank gin pale as water, but it made her smile and laugh.
She painted pictures with her voice, told stories of days gone by.
Old, but she had been young and done things she sang about.
She wowed a carpet of life lived, full of magic colours, too vivid
for some, a grandmother is supposed to be chaste.
Sent to a home for the very old and inept, a song bird silenced.
She watches TV on a screen high on the wall for her not to reach
up and throw into the dustbin of tedium. Hands folded like a tired
bird’s wings she waits for an end that takes long time coming.
And the carafe of water has dust on its surface

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Love In The Air

Love in the Breeze.

At the nearly empty parking lot, near the supermarket,
two plastic bags danced in the spring breeze.
They elegantly circled each other, came near, almost
touched, but danced away from one another only to
meet again in a close circle; know they shyly touched.
A paper napkin with smeared lipstick on wanted to
join in, but the two plastic bags had only eyes for each
other. Deeply humiliated the napkin took refuge under
a car, but the car drove off and it had nowhere to hide.
So it began dancing alone, in slow motion, with eyes
closed as it was dreaming and the lipstick smiled.
A gust of wind came blew the napkin high into the sky
and away from the parking lot to a secret place of peace
only exploited paper napkins know of.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Working Class Soldier

Working class Soldier.

Don’t blame the TV it is what you want, so smile to the camera;
whatever you do don’t show a picture of a mutilated alien soldier,
tomorrow we will win this war and you’ll be remembered as never
before. I wonder if the working class, one day will wake up and say:
”Why should we do all the dying? Ah, my man, problem is you like
fighting it is the only thing that gives gist to your boring life beats
clocking in at seven every morning; fight on friends our leader are
very good at doing military funerals, make you a hero for the day,
you will miss hearing all the blooming words and your wife will
be poor before the flowers have wizened and a hearse rolls down
the lane driving another soldier hero to his grave.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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