Cats
Cats, who needs them?
My cat sleeps all day and leaves the house in the evening,
but before going it changes from an indolent being that
likes to be stroked to a cooler creature that prefers to be
left alone; it treats me as a tiresome stranger and waits
for me to open the door. Should I be outside and see it,
the cat acts as if it doesn’t know me and runs away if I call
its name. In the morning it waits for me to open the door
to let it in, a jovial feline that gently curls up on the sofa
But there are nights when it is raining, or windy when it
doesn’t want to go out then it likes to sit on my desk just
watching me use the key board on the computer, often it
walks on the board wondering what it is about. But I can’t
bring myself to be as rude to the cat as it often is to me...
like I should be its bloody slave.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Mixed Memory
A Mixed Memory
When mother made gateau for someone’s birthdays
I beat the cream using a steel whisker. Boring work
before the cream thickened and could be spread on
the cake, but it was worth it, as I got to lick bowl.
I thought of this as a tempest whipped the sea into
a froth. In the galley I had a mix-master and could
whisk up cream in no time, only I didn’t have the real
stuff, had to use condensed milk but I didn’t feel
inclined to lick its residue. The tempest blew into
storm, the ship was jumping about like an untrained
colt refusing to have a rider on its back. Life boats
smashed, ship railings too we only hoped she could
ride out the storm. In Hamburg I walked ashore and
ate a piece of Black Forest Gateau, awe-inspiring.
And to sit in a coffee shop that didn’t throw me off
my chair like demented colt.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Daybreak Song
Daybreak Song
Soon it will be morning and I can’t have drink
only rummies drink in the morning.
But I have a fear inside me that will not go away
and I know all the smart people will say something
like; “face the truth, ” but not saying what that
truth is. And if you are impolite and ask them
they waffle about their childhood and you can see
they are not being honest. Now I have a watch
on my arm, I never had a wrist watch before but
the woman I live with bought me one as it would be
good for my self respect, like I should go around
hating myself. On the terrace I can see a new day is
about to break, I do not like the idea of that, but
will not worry about it I will simply postpone my
dreams and sleep till sunlight hits my face and
I know it will be ten in the morning and I can´t have
a drink unless I’m a rummy.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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superciliousness in Norway
Superciliousness in Norway.
“They crap in our forest, ” an angry man yelled,
Roma people had pitched tents near the forest
where people of this tolerant nation go skiing
in winters. They came here to find work but
was meet with scorn and mistrust, they came
in hope of getting a part of our largesse; the rich
do not know this word. When people who used
to be poor suddenly see they are better off than
other countries, the first reaction is pride and
an unbecoming arrogance, like it was their
cleverness that brought oil up from the bottom
of the sea… Now instead of being humble having
had such luck they become reactionaries giving
advice to less fortunate countries.
“They crap in our forest”, nourishing an imbecilic
nation that due to undeserved richness has lost
contact with reality and human kindheartedness.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Reverie
Reverie
Dreams have always been vital to me they have been a wing
To fly on for my consciousness, but lately there have been few
dreams and when I dream it is about places I have been to in
other thoughts, meeting people and seeing a nature that is
interior where the landscape it thorny and cannot be shared
with others. There is strangeness to see friends that do not exist,
familiar faces forever young they will just be there and not tell
me what to do, a burden one has to tolerate in conscious life.
My phone doesn’t ring although I’ve a funny, musical ringer tone.
By the lake of wonder virtual friends silently gather, look at me
as to say: “When are you going to be our real friend? ”But I will
not leave before I feel the joy of embracing you again, when
you stroke my vanishing hair and tell me that you love me
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sea Life Remembered
Tropical night with extras added on like moon and stars.
I stood by the railing dreaming as the ship tilled its way
towards Jamaica, jet black sea but the transient furrow
the ship made was white; the ocean sang a sweet dirge,
and before I knew it I nearly fell overboard.
Stepped back, would anyone have heard my screams as
I swam amongst sharks and saw the ship´s lanterns fade
like dying stars? I reflected on my life wasn´t it time to
stop this infinite voyage between ports I had seen before,
harbours, which had nothing new to offer a jaded sailor?
Sat in my cabin, porthole open, I heard the mesmerizing
dirge; closed the porthole, cruelly hot the air fan giving
a sad attempt of cooling, the ship had no air conditioning.
This has to end, before I become a hollow eyed seafarer
lost on a misty island in the Saragossa Sea.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Country For Old Men
A Country for old Men
I have been into town bought a paper and drank a beer,
in the café where the old men sit in the afternoon shade.
I feel more at ease here amongst other wrinklies.
On the other side of the road, near the pharmacy,
the big clock on the wall tells us it’s five and the temp is
41 Celsius, but in the shade and with a breeze blowing
it feels fine. In a few years the big clock will tell us that
time is up, but others will come and take our place.
There is a vast pool of us in deaths ante room; we are
but tiny ants on a window pane so easily squashed by
a child’s thumb. I sit in the shed, see how cigarette smoke
spirals up and out before dissipating in still hot air, and
thought of the silent sighs I heard when a beautiful girl
walked past our café. We shall never possess anything
as lovely again.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Question
The dilemma
The war in Iraq is over, lasted eight years. Soldiers without arms
and legs in wheel chairs are proud to have shielded their country
from deadly danger without knowing what this danger was about.
The crippled have no choice; they must believe or the suffering
is too much to bear; must not been told they fought a useless war.
Pin medals on their chests and forget them, there is s a new war to
be fought waiting for the naive to make sacrifices in some distant
oil and sand land. If one of them stumbles on the truth they must
be silenced by calling them confused, and victims of wanton cant.
A nation who believes in Fox News and the rich owns the media
were truth is portrait as lie. Only an uprising can free them from
capitalist yoke. But how do you tell good people their cars are run
on the torment of oppressed?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Birthday Party 2
Birthday Party
Wolves and foxes had promised me not to fight on my birthday and
I made meaty cakes just for them; But black ravens I had not invited,
came too, egged them on, while also cruelly harassing sparrows in
the plum tree. I had put lights up on the trees in the garden but they
could not on my, day behave. I took the cakes inside, switched off
the lights went to bed and cried. A rumble in the forest, a bear came
told them to behave and be kind to me, mainly because I had baked
it a straw berry tart. The party continued, and squirrels sat on trees
squeaking happy birthday to you as I threw them nuts. In the animal
world it is all about food and as long as you can provide you’re a friend.
Except the raven they do not care, are contemptuous of my feeble,
attempt to be loved by unruly members of the Corvidae family.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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air travel in a Dakota
Air Travel in a Dakota (1956)
White as sheet, the virtual page in front of me, I want to compose a gentle
whisper of a memory. Thought of my first flight, an old Dakota plane, that
looked like a diesel stinking bus inside. I looked under the seat to find
the parachute, but the steward said there weren’t any. Disappointing I had
seen myself jumping out off the burning plane land safely and be in
the newspapers. The steward handed out sweets I pretended to eat one,
thought it might be a drug to keep us quiet, this made sense since many of
the passengers were drunk. Turbulence, like driving on a bad country lane,
I threw up in a paper bag. The plane landed in Sweden, the flight had only
lasted an hour. Walked tall across the grey tarmac, nonchalant presented
my passport to an immigration officer. Here comes a seasoned traveler.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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