The Death Of A Tyrant
They got him in the end, not a pretty sight, dictators are human too.
Now we are hunting his many sons and the rest of his family
We have seen their photo album they sit on sofas smiling kindly to
the camera, just like us on a happy day. We have not evolved our
lack of empathy is intact but we still want to destroy a family, blood
thirsty ogres we are gloating over a suffering face as a man dies.
Instant justice, easier that way, the family, might have much to tell
about us and so it goes on when our side, men in silk suit and soft
hands, kill the perceived foe we see nothing, but a trail of blood and
injustice will one day lead to our doorsteps. But why think about this
Bloomberg and other channels dedicated to money are busy telling
us about stocks and shares, the important thing in the world and in
the end blood too can be turned into cash.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Long Voyage
Long Voyage and a Chinese Lady.
Glittering ocean, there is no difference between the vast blue sky and the sea.
I’m in a bubble, there is no escape. I walk on a rusty deck know this voyage will
never end. Time is reduced to a trickle. The ship is bound for Nagasaki but we
will never get there. I feel a wave of dread, the difference between sunset and
dawn is but a whisper. Magazines, books and old newspapers have been read
and reread a thousand times, playing cards are filthy by overuse, I have fallen in
love with the print of the green Chinese lady in the salon. When voices are still
I sit and watch her and will her to smile, but she’s inscrutable. Seagulls, the sea
has changed colour, grey and foamy, air is no longer pure. Nagasaki has come
to our rescue and saved us from mortal weariness. The city will dock alongside
us in the afternoon.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Travel With Bambi
Travel with Bambi
I was going to Seville, it’s not far an hour`s drive- I live
in the south of Portugal- had no one to look after my dog
she came along too. It was winter she sat inside the car
resting when I walked into galleries looking at paintings
visiting churches, yet keenly aware of her left in the car.
Guiltily bought a roasted chicken with chips, she ate it all
but what she really wanted was to go for a long walk.
Walked we did through roads no one knew existed, empty
houses broken down walls what history they held; the dog
was quiet but her little tail wagged.
We saw rats, cats and stray dogs which she quickly put
in their places; finely she was tired, I had lost my way let
her lead the way back to the car, where she curled up in
the back and snored. It was late I was hungry but could
only find a grotty pizza parlour still open.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Love Story?
A love Story.
I looked down into the open grave the coffin was white until someone
threw a handful dry soil on its lid. Unreal it had nothing to with me, we
had met forty years ago and she left me saying she didn’t love me more.
I turned away, looked towards the bay, it was transparent, I could see fish
swim about, on its floor crabs, lobster that had escaped the net, and
sea plants swaying in the mild current. I poem floated up to the surface of
my consciousness I shook my head this is unseemly, threw the poem back
into a dreamy mere, like an angler who has caught very a small trout, saw
it float in the dark water of my restless mind. Her husband was crying
I embraced him “You loved her too, ” he whispered. I looked to the bay it
was blue and I couldn’t see clearly anymore, I was no longer sure whether
I had loved her as much as he had.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Despotic Dynasty
Despotic Dynasty
Dead leaves of thoughts scrape along the asphalt of subjugation,
but whatever we do we will not climb the mountain of surrender.
There was a moment of freedom, a spring before the righteous,
those who had promised liberty, took power, created new laws
and a new layer bureaucracy, a jungle of words where individuals
were trapped like flies in a spider’s web of conflicting rules; and
it was winter again. At the whim of a president or a mere rumour
you could be imprisoned forever as enemy of the state; no one
told you why? And no one told us that sympathy is paramount to
treason. Yet humanity prevails over official regulatory reasons.
But the dream is after walking through five mountain passes, see
the sun arise and as mist disperse, there a city of light floating in
the clouds, and there will be a joyous cry from the dispossessed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Bleak Coast
Bleak Coast
On a sea that is a clear green mirror the ship sails past
sandy shore on a day the fierce wind that always rules
this shore has taken has taken a day off. Harmony and
silence the sun has taken on an African hue, burning
Nordic skin brown; a day dream perhaps, can a land so
cold and remote be so sultry beautiful, dress up like
a Mediterranean tart attracting tourists by the scores
to swim in her tepid embrace?
A sudden shadow casts a net the unseen’s rest is over,
the sea’s skin cringes, heaves and slaps the shore in
a triple salty spray. Freedom, a dream; endless wind is
back the cruel ruler of land and sea, the shoreline is
misery as are the round shouldered, windblown people
who makes a living tilling unwilling soil to produce pale
carrots, small potatoes and white, hard cabbage which
they eat with sour milk and many prayers.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Winterlight
Winter-light
No one walks on the old road anymore, not even on a day
when almond trees are in bloom. Blue weed and thorny
bushes are shooting through, one day the road will be out
of sight. It leads to a ruin of a house, doors and windows
long since stolen, a door frame made of carved stone too;
half the roof has caved in. A vagabond lived in the ruin for
a time, till gruff voices told him to get lost. I saw him slowly
fade away, erased by shimmering winter light.
He must have walked long was found in a grotto, seeking
shelter from the rain. Three days dead, they said. No saintly
women came, cleansed and wrap his tired body in a shroud.
Funeral at five witnessed by a pale functionary of the state.
Church bells didn’t toll. No one walks on the old road
anymore, not since the bushes grew eagle’s talons and a boa
constrictor took abode in the ruin.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Mood Indigo
Mood Indigo
Quite evening in the village, dogs bark now and then, they don’t bother
me anymore. The cruel heat has gone I have watered the flowers and
the bushes, which are slowly losing their bloom, autumn is here and it
is time for slumber. So many years spent on iron ships only seeing
the endless sea, yet there is a part of me who long for the oceans, but
not for the ships I sailed. Many a moon lit night I have leaned on
a railing listening to the sigh of the seas guessing what message it had
for me. My years as a seafarer was not wasted I have read hundreds of
books, learned about other cultures and respect for the rage of nature.
Twenty years in Paradise I shall not complain and ask for more, but it is
time for me to leave, age demands it, and that’s ok, I shall not travel
far only to the nearest town, I can visit my landscape when I need to.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A French Visit
Early they arrived, my relatives, unpacking of suitcases,
kissing, jubilation and breakfast, during which all the latest
family gossip was shared. Then they all went to the beach
leaving the house in utter chaos. When returning we had
prepared a buffet, they had brought their wine, the French
are skeptical to wine not made in their country… god, how
talked. I have a small house had to sleep in my study, got up
at four working, but I liked the silence of people at slumber.
About five there were stirrings, people going to the toilet
and murmur of voices, I went back to bed or on my sofa.
Woke up at ten, they had already breakfasted and ready to
leave, kidded me for sleeping so late. Then an intense late
talking, like everything had to be said and crammed into
a few minutes, good byes lots of kisses and the old house
settled back to its usual quietude.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The River
The river that crosses the high plain like
an artery has only muddy water since it
didn´t rain in the summer.
Wild horses and donkeys come here to
drink, but often they look up and scan
the horizon weary of man and his dogs.
They served mankind for thousands of
years but with modern farming methods
they are no longer needed and have gone
feral. Free now, but freedom comes at
a prize, winter can be hard and often they
are hunted by sportsmen who kill for fun.
By the mountain there is a corral but only
the stupid and sick go there, the rest know
they are fattened up and used as sausage
meat, which the town uphill is famous for.
Every Octobers there is a gigantic party in
the hill town, beer is senselessly drunk and
tons of sausages eaten, the river, that crosses
the plain, becomes a putrid pool of human
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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