On A Day Like This
On A day Like This
The track I followed this morning in a landscape that
once was Eden but, since the gardeners were fired
had gone to seed, was dry and exuded unrelieved ire.
Leaves on bushes were rusty shaving blades, tried to
cut me up and drink my blood; neglected olive trees
tried to trip me up with sudden exposed roots wanting
to absorb my body so they, full of revulsion, could live
for hundred more years. Dead rabbits in the glade they
had been stabbed by blades of grass sharp as a mafia
assassin’s stiletto; furred creatures shivered in their
burrows. Hurt I made it to the main road where a nurse
waited, sticking plaster, a soft bosom and the aroma of
motherhood, she was my friend and lover, but, alas,
only as virtual as friends in the facebook are.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Summer Precipitation
Summer Precipitation
The cup of old sadness is full; there is little I want to
know, the banal pilfering of politicians stirs me not
into moral ire, they did what people try doing daily
if they can, small time thieving we understand and
therefore can be virtuous about it, while big banks
crimes are too complex and are quickly forgotten.
Summer rain the earth smells of freshly dug graves,
don’t pick the flowers in the glade though, they are
for June weddings and not to be wasted on old men’s
graves. Spill not, drink your hemlock; get up walk in
the rain listen how nature sings and greet s you, all
while you remember a June bride gone. The nymph
had blond hair and green eyes, red lips that tasted of
rose’s dew, till bad magic turned her into a housewife.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Homecoming
Homecoming
I had traveled long and far before getting home,
and it was a beautiful spring day when I arrived.
The air in the flat smelt of neglect, the dust of
memories covered family pictures. “those where
the days my love.” A phrase from a recent song
murmured on my lips. I half turned by the door
wanted to run away again only this time I had
nowhere to go my journey over.
Agonizing silence a never ending Om, I got to do
something, opened the blinds to the door out to
the terrace and up from a flowerpot of dry soil…
and two small eggs flew a pigeon. Wonder and
new hope. If a meek bird could find a home here
so could I; of course for now the terrace was out
of bound. Slowly, ghosts of past misery vanished
as ancient dust danced in a halo of sunlight.
,
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Landscape
A Landscape
Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled
trees, silence speaks of the final peace.
Grotesque dead trees, daylight ghosts, stand there
with grey boughs stretching upward appealing
to a fairytale god, “give us today a new life” but
no, there is only one god he is almighty, and hears
not your fearful whispered wishes, those who do
not understand are doomed to a life of an empty
pursuit for pleasures, crowding nightclubs and
casinos trying to avoid being alone with the night
and facing the truth: we are mortal and heaven is
to be remembered for a while by other mortals.
Faces in a black frame seeing you seeing through
you and into a void. Yet I fear not this landscape as
it is shunned by man and no harm can happen to me
here except the inevitable
poem by Oskar Hansen
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My Landscape
My Landscape
Today, now as the weather is cooling, I went on my walk.
Hadn’t been here since June; simply because it gets to
hot to walk here in summers. The stony part of the track
was firm like walking on a cobblestoned street. The soft
part was like walking barefoot on a newly mowed lawn.
At the part where thorny bushes had made archway,
a tunnel of mystery, I hesitated. Needn’t have worried
the branches embraced me like a mother who’s young
son is coming home from the sea. When I stopped for
a rest under the tree where also sheep rest in the heat,
leaves, in perfectly still air, fell as confetti welcoming
the returning hero. How I love this odd landscape, once it
was tilled but now humanity have gone leaving the land
to its own devise and strange beauty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Pint Of Bitter...for Sure
A Pint of Bitter…sure-
At the registrar office we´re getting married
when I noticed on her papers she had been
married 5 times….hold on you never told me
this, I thought you had been married once and
had a daughter with him. I have of think about
this marriage left she accosted me in the street
and said; but what about the caterers, sausage
rolls and pies?
Cheshire; rain and I dislike indigestible food.
I a walked into a pub and had chicken in a basket
with chips and a pint of beer. Her brother came in
and 12 pints of beer later I agreed to marry his sister.
The rest was a blur working men´s clubs and more beer.
The English working class is a tribe and I didn´t fit in.
I went back to sea again but that bloody piece of paper
with my name on took years to erase.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Meeting Beauty
When Meeting Beauty
I read the menu at the restaurant looked up and saw
a pair of brown leg stretching up to heaven and thought
this waitress is from Senegal, as all beautiful women are
born there, a poor country which God compensated by
given the people physical exquisiteness.
In my old man’s confusion I ordered goat chops which
was quite apt for my unbecoming thoughts.
When she served the food I looked demurely down
but did see her white teasing smile and saw her walk away
moving like a schooner on the high seas.
No, I’m not an improper dirty old man and didn’t make any
leering remarks, but it was a moment when I wished to
be young and be able to admire beauty openly and my
admiration would have been met with a smile....and perhaps
a chance of a warm embrace.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Forgotten Her?
I don’t think about her as before, days when she is far from my mind,
and when I do think of her, certain resentments creep into my heart.
Saw her a week ago coming out of a bank, she looked much older, wore
sunglasses I could not see her sea green eyes, perhaps they had gone
milky by age, like a river after rain. Flashes of remembrance zigzagged
in my head when she was the tree of life, I, like a vine, seeking food
I must have been bloody barmy. There is an art exhibition in the town
I know she will be there; I used to go with her. It starts at eight and
it is seven o’clock and too late. I won’t go, not that I dislike art, but if
I go it will look as I need to see and hope to speak to her. Our affair is
over, I will not think of her not today or tomorrow, not ever.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Poet's Tree
The Poet’s Tree
On the plateau, at distance, I saw a large tree
with multi coloured leaves, on each one was
printed a commercial poem, a verse for every
occasion and written as not to hurt any one’s
feelings. I asked for a poem about unjust wars
in the Middle East, the tree had none but I was
offered a few about World War One. All wars
are just and the winner get to write the rules.
The tree, stood inside rolls of mesh wire, and no
copy pens allowed within a radius of fifty yards.
A storm came, blew the wire around like tumble
weed, leaves- torn from the tree- flew in the air
and transformed into grooming tropical birds
cooing about love. I did find a pale green leaf,
almost transparent, on it was written in blood;
“Gaza is my name let me not die in vain”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fear Of Flying
Fear of Flying
Having spent a week in Israel and seen the inequity and arrogance
of the way the Palestinians were treated, I had a breakdown and
sent to a psychiatric hospital. When feeling better a male nurse
was flying with me to London. The nurse had a great fear of flying
I persuaded him to take valium he was to give me. He got quite
giddy, I ordered whisky for both of us. He insisted on singing Yiddish
songs and fell asleep. I told the stewardess not to disturb him as he
had mental problems.For safety he was hand cuffed and I moved
to another seat. When we landed he had to be wheeled into
the terminal and it took me some time to tell them that it was no
longer my duty to look after him anymore. The nurse was carried
Into a cell while I caught a plane to Liverpool.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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