The Naked and The Dead
Naked I walk through the town but no one sees me
no more than they see a shadow on a sun drenched
wall… and I awoke my son´s name, he who was
not born twenty years ago. My son I have given you
a grand education, all my money has gone to make
you middle class and respected in this town…speak
now and stop your silence I need your support and
do not be ashamed of your father who swam from
the sea penniless but begat you my wonderful child
unborn, cause your mother wanted to be attractive
forever. You are what I never became a person of class.
Do not leave me know, do not be ashamed of your
sailor father who had nothing to give but his love for
an unborn child. Night is so long I wait by the phone,
just one call to tell me you have been successful and
that you love me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Penultimate Day
Pale winter sky, green landscape and the far mountain
is dark blue…the air is so clear I can see white cottages
on the slopes where they have goats and make cheese.
There is stillness, but I hear cars rushing by on the main
road and if I stand on my toes I can see the Gaza Strip,
not in details as it is shrouded in the mist of conflicts.
The distance between here and there is too short today
bullets hit ground and I must hide behind a stone wall.
I see cartridges from shot guns, hunters have been here
and meaty birds fly fast and fearfully from tree to tree.
The dale to the east that looks like a voluptuous woman
on her back, I drove up there once but couldn’t find her.
This year is coming to an end, a year of wars, it is sad to
think in our world hostilities are a norm.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Poet's Tree (rewritten)
The Poet’s Tree
On the plateau, at a 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 gets to write the rules.
The tree, stood inside rolls of barbed wire, 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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Stalker
The Stalker
Liverpool 1974 and it wasn’t raining, sat in a café, at the pedestrian precinct,
the coffee was awful, tasted like milky tea, when I saw her. She was daintily
munching a cheese sandwich with, and drank a cup of tea.Her skin was silky
she had green eyes, red hair and I just knew she was Irish. She looked up and
smiled. I panicked, and pretended to read “Liverpool Echo.” She waited for
me to make a move, paralyzed with shyness I could not. Finally she got up,
I followed; by the Victoria monument she took bus eight to Garston. Now it
was overcast and soft rain fell; she waved as the bus passed me. I thought
of following the bus in a cab to see where she got off, but it was no good
I had hesitated too long, whatever I did next she would think I was a stalker.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Listening Stones
Listening Stones.
These mossy stones put on top of each other…a wall.
green plants sprouts out of them like ears, do they hear
my whisper of compassion? Guarding small plots of
land no one tills anymore, where thieving sheep eat rare
flowers without a second thought.
One field is blood red of flowers that should end all wars.
They sell the plastic variety for you to put on your lapel
and show you remember the nameless soldier who fell
on a grimy battle field with an unanswered question on
his bloody lips.
Old stones once you were children of the highest peak
But the peak disappeared into sand, tired of it colossal
weight. Look at you now, guardians of hidden beauty, you
can stop nothing as rain grinds you into pebbles and
dumb sheep continue grazing on rare flowers.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Outcast
Costa Rica (outcast)
When going ashore in Puerto Lemon (Costa Rica) we had to walk
through a park were the town’s people sat or walked enjoying
the evening breeze. They didn’t like us, we’re uncouth seamen
up to no good. We felt their odium and it made us noisier that we
otherwise would have been. We were on our way to the seedy
part of town where we were welcomed because we had money.
One evening I sat in the park enjoying the peace and sea breeze…
after some time I was approached by a police officer who told me
to move on, he never said way, but the good people felt offended.
As I left I was filled with sadness and I had only one place to go.
Late at night when the good people had gone home the park was
a whore house, just raucous noise and the sea breeze had died.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Assertiveness
Assertiveness
It is very hot I have switched off the air-condition and
opened up windows, it is supposed to be hot in July.
I hadn’t wanted to buy air- cooling in the first place,
I’m too placid and get swayed to do the wrong things.
I sit on the terrace on the terrace, in a plastic chair
that is easy to move around I used to have had a chair
of real wood before I liked more, but it was given to
someone poor; I think about it and get upset I ought
to put my foot down and say: No. Summers past I sat
in my heavy timber chair and smoked my cigarettes,
the burn kept mosquitoes away, now it is frown upon
and I dastardly I quit, but I do have a packet of fags in
the drawers; maybe one day, if I get pissed off enough
by the virtuous, I’ll lit up and enjoy my august nights.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Pensioners
Pensioner
There are problems in the land and you are a pensioner,
austerity is like a sweat horse blanket that doesn’t dry.
Medicine old people needs are getting more expensive,
and come to think of it isn’t old folks pension to high?
Many young people think so as their old age is far away.
Look at them the smug old bastards, have no mortgage
to pay, they are no good consumers don’t buy furniture,
and have savings in the bank. The new society doesn’t
need people who believe in old values, what silly notion.
So tax their savings and their medicine so they can begin
to feel our pain. They had the best of times when work
was plentiful, they lived at a time of copiousness, so let
them try how it feels like to be young today.
An old lady, on Zimmer frame, was robbed yesterday.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Down In The Dumps
Down in the Dumps
Fog everywhere I’m walking on a mass of corpses
sludge of soft rotting soil. Sinking deeper, arms
and legs embracing me as I should be one of them.
In a lake of loss I swam ashore, a soup of death,
banks of bones, a woman in white helped me up...
she too was the haze and disappeared. I totter in
a desert of nothingness. I heard footsteps behind
me the death wanted me to return to the lagoon of
reconstructed dreams. Heart pounding, but there,
by a horizon, dawn and sun of life warmed my face,
but only briefly. The sky rained blood of the evicted.
Drops were rubies and in each one the nucleolus of
my lies and delusion engraved. Inundated I stopped
could not go on, how do I get free of barbed wire of
melancholy? ” Whispering voices: “You fucking loser.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Www And Cute Puppies
WWW. And Cute Puppies
Our new deity, the internet, knows everything, It can be switched
on and off, but what we have seen and read, stay with us- dug
deep down in our souls. Truth has become a lie and a fib truth.
This cannot go on there can only be one reality, the official one;
anything else is sedition. The internet has to be harnessed in layers
of dogma – you are not permitted to view this site-unless you are
a high techno prince and need the whole picture. This is for your
sake, because you don’t understand and may well believe that
no plane crashed on the Pentagon and the war in Afghanistan is
a sham. Censorship is an ugly word, but we must help you to see
the light in the maze of information, channel you to the right path
to the trivial and healthy pornography…amen.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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