Reflection After Oslo
Summer fjords and inland lakes, forests and clean air.
Prosperous, the kingdom and future was bright, then
the killer struck and darkness descended. Why us?
We are peace loving people we are democrats and
embrace multi culturalism. But from the dark depth
of Europe’s soul there is a cry that cannot be stilled.
People who feel they have been invaded by an alien
culture and feel they are losing ground (they are not)
that only violence and war can restore the old order.
Can you stop a tsunami? No, but you can build higher
seawalls. Can you stop an earthquake? No, but you can
build better and stronger houses and go on living.
Yet I fear an Armageddon the world is changing and
a new and better world order is arising, if we cannot grasp
this the west will sink into anarchy and bloodshed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Lovely Couple
The Lovely Couple
In a café I hadn’t been to before I ate an omelet with
french fries, it was flat, boring the fries were re- heated.
Near me sat an old couple reading the paper together,
when he got and up walked outside for a smoke, she read
the obituary page, but just before he came back in she
folded the paper back to the page he was on before
leaving. He was interpreting to her what he had been
reading, something about the new president in the USA,
she knew of his views, she had heard them before,
she was listening to his voice, as they were old and near
the end of a blessed lane they had walked together.
Close they sat she held his arm and now they looked young.
It is odd to think if they knew they would live forever they
may have postponed their happiness indefinitely.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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August
August
The massive heat which paralyzed any thought of going
outside during the day, the heat was as a huge military
blanket glued to the body like skin of grief, wars fought
for no gain other than the knowledge that new masters
who promised peace and freedom, will renege first thing
when safely in power as sure as August will return.
The September evening is soft and gentle as lover´s sigh
the breeze is cooling wooden telephone poles, it is now
possible to ring without hearing the crackling of agony of
sap dripping dowels. The voices of people eating their
meal on terraces and porches are like forgotten a tune
remembered; this, a moment to be cherished when rain
and fog comes and turns the village into gloom and we´ll
under our umbrellas say: ” August wasn´t that awful.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Hope
The Hope
The jet black cloud that hangs over the village
is a malevolent pillow held by arms of awesome
power ready to press down and strangle us.
Serves us right we have been smug thinking we
had the keys to peace, shaking our heads
lecturing others how to, and then it all collapses.
Our democratic system that makes it possible
for the rich to steal from the poor, or our system
of law, where justice is given to those who can
afford it. It is no longer safe to live here, but how
to leave? Car-lights cannot penetrate through
the miasma of night on a road that has lost its
purpose and ends in a vale of nihilistic laughter
where the victims are told to live in peace with
their tormentors. Yet there is a beacon of light
a still flame of hope, the heart of humanity is not
yet defeated.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Mr Nice Guy
Mr. Nice Guy
Saw her stacking shelves at the supermarket, my instinct
was to take her in my arms, away from all this, and ask
her marry me. But I remembered we had been married
before, how she had wanted a divorce because I had no
ambition, a mere short order cook, and how the court
secretly had sided with her, and treated me with dislike,
and yes, I had to leave our flat. Later she married a man
who sold Mercedes cars, he wore a suit to work and had
shiny fingernails, but he used too much au de cologne of
the type who doesn’t bath often and rarely changes his
underwear. He stole money from the till and ended up
in prison, and me? I’m a manager now of a burger bar,
perhaps I should offer her a job for all time sake?
No, that would be rubbing it in, so let her stack shelves.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Dubai
Dubai.
Dubai, the shiny city amongst sand dunes, is built by migrant workers
and their blood. Yes, in this unparalleled luxury, hotel staffs smile like
bright buttons...or else. Your discontent may cost them their job,
suicide amongst migrant workers goes unreported; so guests can sleep
in peace in their gilded beds. Should you ever go to Dubai, remember
it will drown in the sand, when the economic forces move elsewhere.
And this hubris on parched soil will be an historic interlude.
The wind in the night will murmur about untold suffering and the soul
of the disposed shall whisper words for no one ears and the wailing of
the conceited haves shall be goats bleat when sacrificed on the altar
of time without end. For this is the universal law, those you enslaved
will arise and possess you.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Girl In Park
Girl in the Park
In the park I saw my dog Bambi, she was playing with
another dog that belonged to a girl who sat in the grass.
Bambi didn’t see me she had a glossy coat, and looked
beautiful, so I waited for her to see me and come over.
The girl was of no interest, looked as a black & white
photo taken with box camera 1950, I didn’t see her face.
She got up and walked into a café its door was open but
the entrance had a curtain of fake pearls that sounded as
of water in a stream, when moved. The park was empty
and there was no ducks in it dark pond. I walked into
the café, it was empty too; the owner was reading
a paper I asked if he had seen a girl with two dogs, he
said dogs were not allowed in his café, and continued to
read and for no reason at all I sat down and cried.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Portugal In May
These rounded hills surrounding my valley is lush
green with yellow flowers, wish I were a horse, no
jutting military granite jaws around here; God, when
making Portugal, had women in mind.
A flock of sheep eagerly graze have no time to look
up and see the blue spring sky, doomed as they are
to produce wool and meat for Irish stew, watched
over by the shepherd who sits in the shade of a carob
tree and wonders what's for tea.
Pretty red tractors plough soil around olive trees,
perfume of newly mowed grass and roses hang in
translucent air as sun filters through a mystic veil
of aromatic mist of history. Yet, a slight discord in
the day lingers, the donkey is absent, the last one,
a grey jenny, was given to a sanctuary. That is sad,
the long eared made the scenery more peaceful.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Optical Illusion
Optical Illusion
It was an old rabbit, glass eyed and stuffed, that sat on
a window sill it also had a bald spot on top of its head,
petted by children who knew it was alive. The window it
sat by faced the woods and on a day when window was
open, and it was a day in May, it vanished. Hunters had
seen it jump through the air fast as a midnight shadow.
A rich man bought the woods chopped down trees and
filled in the tarn, where it often had been seen smiling to
its own image. This so he could get a trophy on his wall
and be famous as the man who shot the phantom rabbit.
He went insane all he could find was a yellow plastic duck.
A stuffed rabbit sits on the window sill it has glass eyes,
a bald spot on top of its head; snowing outside it deeply
sighs good to be indoors on a day like this.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Thirsty Cars
Those steep, tiring hills going home, I had been in town
bought a new kitchen sink, the second one in forty years,
nothing lasts, that’s how traders make their ill gotten
gains.
My car was exhausted trailing smoke, to lighten
its burden I alighted walked in front as it followed me
slowly.
On a flat stretch it teasingly overtook and drove
in front of me and down a track into a deep ravine where
feral donkeys live and run unlicensed garages I wasn’t in
the mood to play “follow the leader, ” so I walked home
past wayside bars where cars guzzled Brazilian cane fuel
and flashed their indicators,
I ignored this depravity and hasted away. Midnight, when my car pulled up outside, it had lost the kitchen sink and was splattered in manure
of the long eared members of the horse family.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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