The Absence Of Mind
There is an elephant in the room it’s in the corner eating my
straw mattress the one I have had since childhood and could
not bear to get rid of, because all my dreams are hidden in
the stalks of cereal plants; white now as an old man’s beard,
yet soft as the fleece of a spring born lamb.
Ah, memory of a good life lived; sing for m let me write down
what happened so long time ago when time was forever and
forgetfulness was a youthful distraction on a jubilant day.
Poor memory is more sinister now, what is forgotten will not
be remembered, so I need my dreams.
It is true that once upon a time I was seafarer, but since I do
not recall well, I have to invent my tales, yet I have seen and
feared the irate sea. I must write all this down if the elephant
eat the last straw my dreams will be blank screen.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Bull Fighting
Bullfighting
Early morning on the flatland between Portugal and Seville a cockerel crews,
its hoarse wakeup call carries for miles. Vaqueros are already on the grassland
separating bulls form a herd; the bulls are five years old and have been chosen
for the bullfight. Within a week the selected bulls will be dead, slaughtered on
an arena of sawdust and sand, they have been allowed to roam free for years.
Most animals only live a few years, mostly in a pen, and never see grassland
before they are killed. How can meat eaters demonstrate, call for the abolition
of bullfighting? This sport, the only one, where an animal has a chance to kill its
assassin. I’m on a bus heading for Seville to see bullfighting, yes, I do admire bull
fighting; if lucky I might see one of the chosen bulls kills the toreador.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Aide
The Aide
The swimming pool’s wall was decked out with Swiss
flags making the scene solemn and legal, Charles, his
real name Herbert, but he thought Charles have him
an royal air, was leading an alabaster skinned, thin
woman into the pool, she was naked save from a pair
of heavy, leaded boots. They waded to the deep till
submerged, he had instructed her not to hold her
breath, but just let it happen it would be quicker that
way. But she held her breath till bubbles came out of
her mouth and nostrils and her struggle to reach to
the surface ended and she looked like a rare sea plant
swaying gently in the flow. Charles got out of
the pool his job done, elderly now, but with a body
that would make a suit or uniform look good, he had
the contented air of a man who had found his proper
vocation in life.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Bus 8
Bus 8
On the bus 8, to Garston I met my future wife I was going
to meet someone at the British Legion there, something
about a job on a ship. At an outdoor we bought cans of
coke and also bottle of rum, the job thing was forgotten
I thought she was the most understanding woman I had
ever met. A fortnight later we got married, people I didn’t
like much, brothers in laws, came to our reception.
Dreams never last, like a worker’s money, woke up one
morning; no smell of coffee from downstairs she had gone
out and left a note: “Get a Job! ” Took a bus to Albert Dock,
a ship there, going to Murmansk, needed a cook I didn’t
hesitate, signed on, every morning made my own coffee
and everyone else’s. I would still like to know if she, when
coming back from Garston’s shopping centre, missed me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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She Only Exist In Dreams
She only exist in a dream
She only existed in a dream an old man dreamt, in his lonely cottage,
when sitting by the fireside patting his dog’s head. Knock on his door,
there she stood looking a dream and since he knew her he invited her
in. His dog happy too it had a bald pat top of its head, and the wood
in the hearth roared its approval. The elderly man was content too
only the real thing spoke a lot, burped, ate and used too much water
when having a shower and the real sex wasn’t that great either.
When the aged man awoke his chimney corner was cold and full of
ashes, but he was glad it had been a bad dream – perhaps too much
red win had cut down on the booze a bit- He sighed let out the dog,
went into the kitchen and made a cup of coffee, feeling quite relived
that his wishes had not come true.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Changeing Face Of Europa
The Changing Face of Europe
So we are the last true Europeans in the sea of changes
and conflicting religions as old certainties disappear and
we bewildered look at a world we don’t understand.
Israel is drowning in a demographic pool and their fight
to remain pure Jewish are doomed. Christianity is singing
its last hymn and churches in the future, if not razed to
the ground, will be places for tourists to marvel over.
Empires and countries always rise and fall like the tide.
Cultures too have their days before discarded as quaint
but useless for a new time’s need. But we are not totally
doomed, the new society, perhaps not as insipid skinned
as us, will hopefully adopt the ancient idea of democracy.
To predict the coming is impossible, but one thing will
forever remain true: Man’s hunger for freedom.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Herder
Words are racing by as a yacht making blue water white.
Should I now think in nautical terms, say, a bad seascape
painting of crested waves, which looks like clotted cream?
When I’m thinking of sheep that feed on sun yellow grass
on a field dotted with olive trees? Bedouins unlike cowboys
feel no disgrace looking after them. Biblical peace, that is
before walls were erected and common land absorbed in
the name of nationhood. I know naught, land has changed
hands for thousands of years and will do so again, but I pity
the olive tree it takes a long time bearing fruit, when it does
the walls will be used as building stuff for modest homes.
Peace will be restored, but not forever humanity is, even if
it talks about it, not made for peacefulness. The man with
the biggest flock of sheep will always want more land.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Death of an author
The Death of an Author
John Updike is dead, can’t say I know much about him
I may have read one or two of his books but he didn’t
leave a lasting impression as Hemingway did.
One of my neighbours has died too, I saw him every
day walking past my house with his old dog and a basket
in his left arm, with wine and a bit to eat.
He was going to his little field, doing some weeding but
mostly just drinking looking at the way birds flew, patting
his dog’s head and snoring gently under of a tree.
There was something about his eyes, like some inner
suffering had made him look holy, say, as an idealized
picture of Jesus on the cross.
I’m going to his funeral tomorrow morning, at 67 he was
bit young for death I thought, a new face will come and
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Old Friends
Old friends
My friends and I are elderly men with protruding bellies, we drink whisky
in the evening and talk about the old days; and of friends that went before
us. We feel slightly envious of them, as we have yet a death to come.
The war in Afghanistan has lasted ten years and might last ten more years
this makes us smile for we know wars are endless, like a bad back we have
to learn to live with. Little has changed in our life time, avarice and lust for
power rule ok. In the bar we talk about football, a game of utter futility.
When we leave and see a beautiful girl walking past we don’t bother to turn
around for a second glance, what’s the point. When a friend dies, usually of
cancer or heart attack, we go to his funeral, drink whisky, shudder and talk
about him, sport and the crazy world we live in.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Angels too
Angels Too…
I didn’t believe it was possible, mind I had been away
for some time, angles growing old? In the fair Faro,
an old city in Algarve, Portugal she lives and used to
be as blond and pure as the ones one sees in fairytale
books, here where people are olive skinned and look
Arabic- which make them kinder than peoples who
live up north-. When she floated through my town in
the afternoon, people lined streets in the hope that
her smile would fall on them for luck, alas, no more.
Grey haired now, wearing slippers, bunions give her
great pain, she looks inwards which is a good thing
as no one recognizes her anymore. Smiled to her and
said halloo, that woke her up, she smiled back at me,
yes, the same angle is still in there just harder to see;
thus fortified by her glow I did my newspaper round.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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