Joe, the Soldier
You have uniform, stripes and badges you are a hero at last.
No longer alone but in a group and you do as you’re told.
They tell you to fight for your country, but omit telling you
that the same country gave you nothing because you’re poor,
and now you are dying for it. Working class, when they send
your casket home your father is proud. Death on a battlefield
to preserve the haves way of life. Your parents get a medal
of lies to put on the mantel piece. When they see they have
been made fools of they have lost the will to protest.
If they voice their anger over your futile death they will not
be believed, their neighbours are stupid, and lack loyalty to
their own class and so it goes on.
The haves can fool you all the time...yes,
forever my friend....Unless you opt for insurrection.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Posh Tart
The posh Tart.
She, an old fashioned girl, when walking past me
dropped her handkerchief, gallantly I picked it up.
and hand it to her, it was scented and had enticing
aroma of womanhood. Said her price and my face
fell into the street where it was dragged along by
a cleaning car. She didn´t look that way- short skirt
beret and red handbag-. Said she only picked up
gentlemen, I was going home from a literary party
consisting of pork pie, hot air and warm red wine.
I walked into a bar, had a double whisky thought
about what she had said… calling me a gentleman.
From the inside of the bar I saw her dropp her silk
hankie again, like bait, this time she caught a fish
and off they went to make posh love, I marveled
over my everlasting naivety and wondered if she
called him a gentleman too.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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25th Of December
“25th of December
It’s been raining for days, fine drizzle not caused by tempest but
by a mild depression, liquid silk that gives soil time to soak it up
before it runs into rivers and brooks and disappears back into
the sea. The rain falls on the old roof tiles and gives off a soothing
sound a promise, come spring the plants will be stronger and
flowers richer in colour and profusion than the year before.
Grass grows quickly in the mizzle I stroke the mule’s flank it doesn’t
mind being wet but keeps on munching on succulent feed. It is when
the westerly blows it seeks shelter under a carob tree or comes up
to the houses to be stabled. The dog awakes she wants to go out,
I put a raincoat on, we follow the lane till she has had enough and
wants to go back to her place by the fire.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Indian Dream
The Indian Dream
I saw an Indian princess coming out of a limousine, not
an actress, pretending to be royal. She was dressed in
a sari made of the finest silk that ad been spun eight times
was airy and light as a zephyr. She wore diamond earrings
and necklace of black pearls on her swan like neck,
she looked so aromatic and esoteric had I seen her coming
out of the loo I would have been quite flummoxed.
Eyes downcast, a demure mien she didn’t see me waving
at her, when crossing the street a guard shaded her with
a green parasol. I’m going to India before the monsoon,
I’ll find the princess drive her home to Portugal in
a low-cost Indian car, I will have to install an air condition,
one cannot have a princess transpire, mind, if she did it
would be pearls of sweet honey on her brow.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Epic Joureny
Epic Journey
This story happened before the invention of snow-scooters,
a couple- the Østerjøen was frozen over- wanted to flee
the poverty of Suomi to the relative prosperous Svearike on
a sledge pulled by their pony. It was a long, cold treck, their
small horse got very tired and could not pull them anymore.
They needed the pony it could be used as carter of gods in
Stockholm. They made the tired animal lie down
on the sledge put a big blanket over it and continued their
journey. The winter night was very cold and they also got
too tired to pull the sledge. They lay down beside the horse
and slept snugly to a dazzling sunlight awoke them.
The pony rested was fed with the last sack of hay left and
harnessed. In good mood all three continued their heroic
crossing to Svearike and new future.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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What Angles Know
What Angels Know
It is odd but darkness is not dark enough to hide shadows
of what is about to happen. It may be trivial a cyclist falling,
a bit of nosebleed and concerned onlookers, or a ship sinking,
desperate men swimming in the water and being eaten by
bold sharks, but of course the shadows are ready to silently
absorb screams sight and smells and record everything in
the logbook not knowing what pity is, and it will not read by
anyone’s mind, but other shadows prepared to endlessly mimic
human life form as they pass through temporarity and stored
for future references, washed and rinsed of thought as they
must never doubt their robotic limitation they are mere life forms
who accept the certainty of death, not knowing how to make
eternity bend to wish and produce the galaxy of peace.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Atlantic
The Atlantic
Thought I was over it now, the call that is my destiny;
twice I have tried to be a part of the sea,
but I failed swam to the surface inhaling life giving air.
I have moved inland, far from the sea,
where there is a puny lake and it dries up in June.
I have no son or daughter that will visit me
at the old people’s home.
No one to fuzz over me tell me not to smoke or waiting for me to go.
The sea is my friend.
My youth was spent there, alone at night standing on the deck,
of a ship, talking to the ocean, listening to its warm hum;
I resisted wanted more of life I think.
I have been wrong now that I’m old and have lost my dignity,
holding on to life when every
stab of pain tells me I’m there.
The sea has retreated I know it waits for me to know when it
is time to go home.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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merry Christmas
“Merry Christmas”
Another Christmas is upon us, all the four channels, where I live,
show Hollywood movies with groomed children and fake snow.
To avoid offending non Christians, natal is called the festivities.
You may call it Hanukah for all I care especially in USA where
the Israeli propaganda is slowly strangling America’s ability to
play fair and think straight. How bizarre Christmas often can be.
I’m watching a Santa advertizing olive oil. In Palestine farmers
have their olive trees cut down by odious settlers. So much hate
the intruders want it all and they feel no charities for the people
they rob. But not all is bad, here where I live, the homeless can
come in from the cold and eat humble pie but no wine though.
And as we sing, drink and wear silly hats, children die in Africa.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Necktie
The Red Necktie.
He woke up, fully dressed but minus his tie, on a lumpy hotel bed
It was a down and out sort of local, the last semi civilized place
before sleeping rough. It reeked of sadness and stank of depravity.
He switched on the TV news, during the night a woman had been
brutally strangled with a tie. His heart sank, he sweated, stabbed
by fear but he couldn’t remember a thing, total black out; yet he
vaguely remembered angry voices and someone running in a back
alley. Should he ring the TV channel and ask what colour the tie?
Or should he call the police and give himself up? His tie was green
with black dots on. There was rumbling from an old fridge in
the room, he opened it in the hope of finding a cold beer…. No beer,
but wrapped neatly around a bottle of whisky, a red silk tie.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Time And Its Daughter
Time and its Daughter
I love your face and your face loves itself
For its perfect nose, green eyes and rosy lips
And your fragrance has a Narcissistic allure.
The way you walk pavements adore you
rain shies away as not to make your hair wet
I love your face and your face loves itself.
When you cross the street car horn blears
All by themselves and white cars turn pink
And your fragrance has a Narcissistic allure
Sun doesn´t burn your skin, makes it golden.
Till, one day, the mirror tells of a wrinkle, and
you know years are ganging up on you.
You only enemy is time it waits in the wings.
As furrows settle on your forehead.
I love you face, your face doesn´t love itself
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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