The Last Sunday of October
Vilamoura marina on a glorious October day, tourists gone home
leaving the promenade for us elderly to walk sedately along it.
I saw an ancient lady walking forcefully, using a Zimmer frame,
It looked like she was trying to set a new personal record, and
we gave her space. We saw a once famous footballer, sad really
you see them running around a big green field and the next day
they are dated and forty. In case you ask, it wasn’t Beckham.
Many yachts tied up and their owners are allowed to drive their
cars on the promenade, my old socialist heart was ready to revolt.
Cafes were open and served food for us old at reduced price; still
too expensive, it was as idle waiters were eyeing us malevolently.
The Zimmer lady returned I think she had beaten her old record.
Then it was late afternoon and the sea breeze cooled our ardour;
time to go home and drink our cacao.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Nostalgia
The heat is unusual even the olive grove
looks tired, old trees gasping waiting for
sundown. Yet the evening is still hot and
no breeze soothes tired leaves.
Every august I tell myself that next year
I´ll go to Norway to cool down. But what
I´m going to do there, it will be raining and
I never had an umbrella.
In my old home town I will be walking up
and down streets trying to catch the old
magic, that perhaps wasn´t there in
the first place, there were moments when
on Sunday forenoon, I used to walk to my
aunt´s house, we smoked cigarettes, drank
coffee and ate coco macrons.
On my walks I will only see young faces of
a new generation who has not in common
with me, and it will sadden me to see old
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Foreign Roots In Desert Fall
Foreign Roots in Desert Fall.
It is sad to watch the big tree wearing a vast crown of hubris,
casting demonic shadows it allows nothing else to elevate.
Blows leaves of steel and stop anything that may help a small
bush grow. Once this tree was admired, an example how fast
arid land, fit only for the native Arabs, olive trees and goats,
grew into ten thousand blood dripping roses. In time,
countries far away came to fear this tree’s voraciousness its
boughs try to strangle the world; it is as it needs to govern us
to feel safe. Until we saw its weakness: ” This is a frantic tree,
a foreign plant in agony it has lost its purpose, has no ethics.
Worse of all its bark is scabby, roots are shallow; the tree can
tip over if our anger and disgust get to be a lashing hurricane,
which upend the tree; and its leaves will forever restless rustle
on the road to nowhere.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Window Into The Past
A Window into the Past.
Visiting time over, mother was ill in hospital she had been so tired lately.
Nearby a small stream, an empty box of matches was my raft, rudderless
it rushed down rapids and disappeared under ground, under the town
and I wondered if it reached the docks. I had bought mother a chocolate,
in the same shop that sold oranges and but they were too expensive,
but ate most of the chocolate while listening to her instructions, to peel
spuds, buy milk and yesterday loaf (half the price) , open a tin of sardines.
But first I had to go down to the docks see what ships were in and also try
to find my raft. When I came home mother stood smoking in the kitchen,
she had peeled the spuds. They had let her out only so she could pack her
suitcase; she had to go up the mountains, where the air was pure, and be
cured… and I knew why I hadn’t found my raft.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sleeping Mouse
Sleeping Mouse
In front of me, on the track that leads into the bushes, a tiny field mouse.
Picked it up and put it in the palm of my hand. The mouse was brown and
white, absurdly cute when it curled up and fell asleep in the morning light.
Eyes, lungs and heart, like me, so what’s next? I couldn’t stay here with my
hand outstretched waiting for it to wake up from its slumber, nor could
I take it home. Behind me I heard the shepherd with his sheep and dogs,
Put the mouse in my pocket. When dust had settled and the baaing stopped
I put my hand in pocket to pick it up, only it wasn’t there anymore. To have
a mouse in the palm of my hand, is one thing, but to have it crawling about
inside my pants? I took my trousers off. I took my shirt off. I stood there
naked as Adam in Paradise, no mouse. As I slowly dressed, butterflies flitted
making the woods enchanting.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Twenty Years In Algarve
Twenty years in Algarve (biography)
I have lived in the upper Algarve for twenty years. I have been hiding away
from life all those years, I know every bush tree, every bend in the road,
seen, seasons coming and go, trapped in my own alcoholic mind, unable to
be free from this slavery that only makes me feel at ease when the bottles
have been emptied and sleep brings in a new day. Then working through
the day, blind never taking the time to befriend anyone, relax; for my quest
is the night when I can open a bottle of wine and dream the loser’s reverie
and see myself if I could be free of the pasts ghosts. My childhood is my
nightmare, only wine, for a while, stills my fear; those disgusting people
who abused a child. Shall I ever be able to break the chain of fear, feel
equal to fellow man? Alcoholism is a burden, a struggle I’m losing as I sink
into old age misery.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fight For Freedom
The Fight for Freedom
Another art exhibition, paintings of naïve art decorated on ancient doors
and window shutters, most of them about harvesting of olive and carobs.
And of course there were mules and donkeys without the beasts of burden
the Iberian landscape could not contained its charm of slow but steady
labour. Fences made by stones, from unwilling earth, this patch of land
is mine given to me by my father. And so are the trees, all of them; land
was important back then for families’ survival and cultural inheritance.
And they are lucky, the Portuguese, no horde of war injured people will
descend upon them and declare a new Hebrew republic,
Yet, once upon a time Portugal was a province under Imperial Rome till
it declared independence, by force. If you do not fight for your freedom
you will not get it. So what is left for the Palestinians to do….Intifada?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Cowboy
The Cowboy
In Texas they love football and cowboys, not your ordinary
cowboys mind, the ones who herd the cattle to slaughter,
but those who walk tall in local towns and own an oil well
or two. Real cowboys are usually black or Mexicans, low
paid and smell of cattle and dust; and when the cows are
delivered to the abattoir drink lone star beer, chew tobacco
and get arrested. Real cowboys dress in fancy costumes look
a bit effeminate, when drunk on whisky ride an artificial bull
and fall off to great applause from adoring female fans who
think those ridiculous pseudo heroes are for real.
In Texas they call it Americana, have a governor who gladly
condemn people to death, western tradition- hang them high-.
When Illusion overtakes overtake truths mainly because veracity
is boring, after all a cowboy is a cattle herder and reality lacks
the romance of a pearly studded dud.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Many Friends
Friends.
It was running wild, running through the house, unstoppable.
Down the road it ran... filling cities and town with a quiet scream.
What is happening, no one asked; people just stood there
and questions were not answered.
Rain was, a whisper on your umbrella, so what is new baby?
How should I know... the new thing was the world had
fallen silent, humanity had to listen to the world’s voice.
It was then, a small nation, that doesn’t follow rules, decided
to dropp a bomb, that stunned the globe into hush.
Silence, silence do not open your mouth and express an opinion
less a written word will appear on your screen...forever
screaming noiselessly into your ear: you must not have
a view contrary to the mainstream. And the big silence will
overshadow our life and reduce it to baby picture on
the facebook a place where you sold your soul in order to
have 7234 friends.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Harvey's Brother
Harvey’s Brother.
I paused in, the shade of a carob oak, to smoke a cigarette,
when a rabbit crossed the track, stopped sat on its haunches
and sniffed the air. Do not come nearer, my furry friend
the temptation will be too great and I’ll shoot you. It didn’t,
but I shot it any way, gutted and skinned on the spot, hoped
no one heard the bang the hunting season had yet to start.
At home I cut it into nice pieces added, onion, garlic, parsley
and with butter gently fried it in an iron pan, then I let it
simmer with red wine for some time. I went into my study to
read the papers, the rabbit sat on top of my desk eating
yesterday’s poetry, nice animal grey and blue, with silky fur,
and I thought of a movie called “Harvey.” Back in the kitchen
I put the stew in a dish and gave it to the neighbour’s dog.
Harvey has gone now he doesn’t even appear in my dreams.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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