Transvaal
Transvaal (love story)
South Africa! I remember her well. She came to my shores
a summer day, a voluptuous brunette, but I’m no longer sure
if she had green eyes. She was bright, had studied insects,
but hated spiders, and she knew who was the president of
USA. A tough girl who could look after herself, I liked that.
A perfect match, but why did she have to be so young?
September had met May, no future in that. I was in love but
for her I was perhaps a mere a summer flirt. I avoided her
romanced a woman nearer my age. That made her angry
but I had the heartache. She left, when autumn leaves began
to fall, my sweet South African girl. My dream was that she
and I should cross the Argentinean and see many sunrises
in our sleeping bag. What a fool was, I could have asked her,
but self confidence is not my game, she might have said yes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Just an Idle Poem
A cargo plane, loaded with white rabbits, got lost in a heavenly
storm and landed on the moon, the pilot declared himself king.
The second pilot would have none of it, slew the pilot, declared
a republic, with him as president, and freed the rabbits.
When all the little bottles of booze planes carry for hospitality,
were empty the president got depressed and threw himself;
off the moon, was sucked up into a black hole and woke up on
the Australian outback and got a job a camel rider with an all
consuming hatred for airline pilots. The moon rabbits, however,
thrived lived on nourishing dust and moon dew. But slowly they
changed appearance and became moonbeams that lit up parks
summer nights and make lovers swoon. A cynic may say they
became inconsequent spectres, useless as a poem written for
pleasure and lacking in moral judiciousness.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Broremann The Fisherman
Broremann the Angler
On the pier where fishing vessels were tied up my brother
sat fishing all the while seagulls kept swooping and shrieking,
he blissfully ignored them. He had no hook at the end of his
line and when asked why he said, I don´t like to hurt the fish.
But crafty little Broremann was not as innocent as you may
think, he didn´t like fish, all those horrible tiny bones,
his mother had sent him down to the pier to try catch some
fish for lunch. He liked sausages with mashed potatoes and
stewed peas, now he could go home tell his mother fish didn´t
bite today, but made sure to put the hook on the line so his
mother could see he was really trying. An old fisherman gave
him two sardines wrapped in a newspaper, but wouldn´t you
know it the pair of sardines somehow slipped out of the paper
and made their way back to the sea.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Demise Of A Doorman
The Demise of a Doorman
Eric Ericson, ex wrestler, was staying at my boardinghouse.
He had a job as a doorman (bouncer) at a local nightspot,
but was fired for drinking on the job and could no longer
pay for his room. I told him, with heavy heart, that he had
to leave next day at noon. I went up to his room at eleven
asked if I could drive him somewhere? Say, the bus station.
Eric sat on a chair looking out of the window, it was a nice
spring day and the mild breeze made the curtains flap like
sails did on boats in the bay. He civilly thanked me, said he
wasn’t going far. At precisely twelve a cold shudder went
through the sleepy house and I froze not wanting to know
what the wobble could mean. Half past twelve I went up to
his room, Eric, the quiet man, hung from the end of a rope.
The curtains billowed it had been such a beautiful day.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Argentna
Argentina.
When I got up and looked out of the window the village was
floating on a cloud. I walked to where the cloud ended and
saw the pampas of Argentine and horses galloping in a circle
around a dead cypress. The horses looked tired and starved,
but could not stop their senseless galloping around the tree.
There were also many dead foals trampled down in the dust.
I was in Buenos Aires once, remember a great ballroom and
a big marble staircase I saw the dictator’s wife walk down it.
She was dressed in white and striking at a distance, but close
up she looked hollow eyed and her skin was yellow. A band
played wiener waltzes, officers and their women danced with
decorum. It was only when thousand guitars struck up a cord,
music born from paucity and dreams to break free and flee,
the dictator’s lady smiled and looked young again.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Failed Revolution
The Failed Revolution
In my childhood’s town there was one neon light on top of a five storey building:
“Jesus Saves.” I asked mother what Jesus saved.”Souls, ” she said without looking
up, she was reading the communist manifesto, dreamed of the day when workers
would take over factories and throw into prison the obese capitalists. She tried to
emigrate, to the Soviet Union, but was turned down, she had no skills other than
putting sardines into a tin. Mother made rice pudding that day and I was allowed
to scrap the brown sticky residue in the pot. A famous rich capitalist is in jail,
in Siberia, It is nice place he has internet, sits in his shirt sleeves sends emails to
friends protesting his innocence. Accused of stealing oil from his own company,
I wonder how this is possible. No, not the revolution mother was dreaming about.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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New Year 2012
At last year’s New Year bash in the ballroom at the hotel, had two
hundred guests, this year 45 guests and the room was chilly and
had melancholic echo of yesteryears. A luxury liners’ last voyage,
ready to be chopped into bit and sent to the voracious furnaces
of China’s famished thirsts for steel.
And we, the 45, where stalwarts from bygone epoch the last of
a shrinking middle class. Too many waiters, too many cooks, they
knew what was coming next, the dole. Who needs a flat footed
waiter or a cook you can’t teach new tricks?
Twelve o’clock we toasted one another but our joy rang hollow in
the big room. The party was supposed to continue till four in
the morning as it had before, most guests left quarter past twelve;
I can only hope the crew, we dastardly deserted, drank the wine
ate food we left behind and had a proper wake.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Europe's Problem
The Problem of Europe
There is an echo that rumbles in my liberal mind regarding
the Moslem population in Europe. Yes, we must accept them
they are citizens, but they do live in Europe now which has
different culture than the Moslem world. But it appears to me
they want to change a Europe to become like them.
The first generations of Moslems who came here were happy
to escape poverty and repressing regimes, however it is
the new generation who feel they are not being accepted…
but they are. Europe needs the energy and thrift the Moslem
youth brings as long as they don’t try to fit Europe into
an unreal sharia state that never existed other than in the mind
zealots. So my liberal mind is confused, I will bend for their
religious needs, but I will not live their repressed life, to be
straitjacket into religious rules I find objectionable.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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English Rose
The English Rose (end of a dream)
I once met an English rose, slightly frizzled at the edges.
Her eyes was as green as the Atlantic sea, this alone
should have been a warning, ‘cause I know how untrue
the sea can be. Her voice sounded like tinkling bells and
her artistic hands could to wonders. Embraced we slept in
the good tiredness of exhausted lovers. But in heaves of
love she often whispered another man’s name, it filled me
with foreboding. I rang and rang, no answer, went to her
house, she wasn’t there, her neighbor said she had gone
to Spain and she mentioned a name I had so often heard.
The good woman saw my tears, hugged me and whispered.
“She is not worthy of your love.” Years went by I saw her at
a supermarket’s check out. Her bloom had gone, no longer
a rose, just a woman with a bitter lined face carrying a bag
of grocery.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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As Time Goes By
In our town there were many small shops, one selling
buttons the other socks; and a hardware store should
you need a hammer and nails to hang up a picture of
your mother -in- law, in the living room.
There was also a shop selling scarves, another selling
ladies hats, and a third one, quite posh, selling suits and
ties. I mustn’t forget the shoe shop, leather footwear
black or brown and white tennis shoes.
In our street of trade most shops have shut, those still
open are run by the Orientals where you can buy all
you need for a very small price. If your shoes wear out,
no point going to the old cobbler, buy Chinese instead.
Red lanterns sway in the fiscal breeze of decline where
wistfulness has no price tag. But you must remember
this, a shop is just a shop, yet, for us sentimental fools,
are remembered as a sweet memory of times gone by,
poem by Oskar Hansen
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