A Tale Never Told
A Tale Never Told
The old man, who carried what, appeared to be and empty sack
over his shoulder when he walked through the village, is no more;
and I never got around asking him what was in his jute sack.
I think he carried around stories untold, dreams and translucent
memories of childhood. He was the brother of another old man
the one with a white donkey who came to our village selling
juicy, big lemons; alas he too has gone. He said of his brother,
the dreamer, walked amongst the stars and had forgotten how
to talk except to trees rose bushes and animals in the forest.
I once saw him in the glade playing mouth harmonica to a flock
of sheep that for once forgot to eat. When seeing me he stopped,
got up, smiled shyly and walked his way followed by snow white
rabbits; I fancied they were angels. I look up to the October sky
and sense his shadow and smile casting peace upon me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Yemen
Yemen
It is awful poor country, with little to offer but carrots and sand.
Come to think about it very few carrots only brush land and dust.
People cry freedom but no one listens. A tiny place in the corner
of nowhere, mud huts and stones... no oil to lift a jaded spirit.
Chew a sort of weed that that lulls souls into stupor and bring
temporary peace. Yet they go on fighting tyranny despite being
ignored by us, we who must be selective in whom to defend.
They want to be free in a land where no roses bloom knowing
they have little to offer other, sand and stones and a longing
to be rid of tyranny. Help us they cry to the sky, but the world
is full of carrots, dry sticks. Love of once country is an odd thing
it can be full of scorpions and deadly snakes but it is the land of
their fathers they have seen it bathed in a golden hue at sunset
and they remember its hidden beauty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Adventure Of A Timid Man
The Adventure of a Timid Man.
The narrow dirt road I followed today was nothing more than a bumpy track,
on both sides ugly trees and thorny, evergreen bushes I was trapped in
the wilderness of enraged nature. Sun and deep shadows, god knows what
lurked in them. Prickly silence, the noise of the scooter unnerved me,
switched off the clamour; opaque calm. As a child when we played cowboys
and Indians I was forever the redskin; trust me to side with losers.
Tractor tracks which meant the road was leading somewhere. I heard grunts
in the bushes maybe it was a boar and if it charged I had no defense, not even
a folding knife. Whistled a Dixie tune, spoke loudly, the echo of my fear ran
up and down the road. I drove on ignoring the imps that grabbed at my shirt
trying to hold me back. And there I saw it the asphalted main road, now I had
nothing to fear but cars and crazy drivers.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Barefoot In The Sand
Barefoot in the Sand
The beach, I used to walk here often years ago with
my dog- the dog is now dead and it is against the law
for animals to be on beaches- except for seabirds,
only because it isn’t practical to ban them, looks clean
and raked most of it is fenced in and belong to some
hotels. The bathing season hasn’t started I ignore signs
telling me I shouldn’t be here, ignore too a spy camera
mounted on a concrete pole. Ok, I’m too old to make
love in the sand, but I feel sorry for people who can
but are spied on and arrested for enjoying themselves.
Where sea washes sand it is easy to walk I turn and see
my footsteps erased by lazy ripples, it is like I never was
here, and I miss my dog. I will not be back here again
before the fall when the season is over, perhaps by then
there will be barbed wire and armed guards to stop me
seeing the sea I used to know so well.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Collector
The collector
I was a collector of paper napkins, every day I used to go around
picking them up, they were usually smeared with human saliva
and scum fat of cheap food. I had twenty bags full in my garage,
I stored them there since I have no car but like to mention that
I have a garage. One morning when I entered to pick up the stick,
with a nail in the end, the one I picked napkins with, the sacks
had turned in to tired workmen resting after slaving long hours
in the factory of hell. I opened the garage door they were free to
go and I saw them vanishing into the morning glare. They had
done their duty no more was excepted of them. From now on
till rain came they were be free, dance with dust and leave and
disappear on their own accord when time was right... My garage
is empty now but the smell of sweat and struggle lingers with old
jokes repeated a hundred times in workmen’s canteen
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Factrory Food
Factory Made Food.
A perfect microwave dinner for one
sunrays drink from the wine bottle
The dinner is tasteless,
and the rest of the wine is warm
as a cat licks its paw and has no worry
about the morrow.
Who invented tuna fish with mashed potatoes?
It must be someone without a mother,
or if he had one, she must have been
a busy executive and time poor.
At the orphanage they eat left over of dinners
they never had, forever made into a stew
children do not care; yester-days loaf.
He sits in his mansion, count his money and
think of other variety of frozen food he can
invented preferable something that looks
looks like vomit.
He is a vegetarian and hate mankind for
liking meat…he hates greedy little children too
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Aliens
The Aliens
By the sandy shores of Ghazzat, a young boy stood.
The sea was calm and turquoise and he dreamed of
sailing away one day. He was awoken by the noise
of artillery, tanks and fighter jets; the aliens were on
a collective punishment mode, to teach his people
a lesson, having had the cheek to hold a democratic
election and voted the wrong party into power.
On a hill, on the other side of the border, youngsters
were applauding the carnage. Billows of smoke and
flashing fires, like watching fireworks in the middle
of the day. What a great day! Coffee and strudel was
served to the hungry crowed.
The boy, by the shore, was hit by a stray bullet, mind
he had no business being there, and as his blood
oozed into the peaceful sea and sailed away, he looked
up and saw the grinning face of a fighter pilot, not
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Art'life
At the Oslo art museum we went to see Edvard Munck’s
“The Scream.” Yeah I know that feeling.
I bought a print it cost about twenty Euros, it now hangs
on the wall in front of me and it screams for me.
But his painting “The Kiss” absorbed me the most, it
is one of the greatest sensual, painting I have ever seen.
There were many other paintings of great masters, but
I didn’t see them as “the kiss” blurred my sight.
There was a reverent whispering in the room, I didn’t
cared for, like being in a church where even a cough is
frown upon. When my wife went to the loo I told a female
security guard she looked like the woman in the “kiss.”
Her stern, blue eyes softened, she giggled and said:
“But you can’t see the woman’s face in the painting.” No dear,
but if I could it would be a face as beautiful as yours.”
More guards came and I was escorted out of the building.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Migration
Migration
In this rich flat landscape there are no stones they had to
travel to the far mountain and with mule and cart it was
a long arduous journey. Stones were only used as base for
houses and as grave stones, but since these were stolen
so this practice ended, the dead had to do with wooden
crosses which tend to rot when it rains. Farmers buried
their stones under a mass of soil, for safety mounds of
them dotted the flat landscape and made it less monotone.
Modern time, a railway line stretches across the land and
ends in a haze were the mountain begins, stones are now
a common thing, way, all and sundry has one, the poorest
even have gravelled strewn back yards. A clever man decided
to open a rise and sell stones a souvenir as a memory of
the past, when life was idyllic, but he found a mass grave,
not only human skeletons but also household goods, toys
and musical instruments.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Hideous Heart of Scandinavia
Morning in Oslo, from my hotel window I see many roofs
most of them the same design; tidy, I wonder if Oslo employs
roof sweepers. Social democracy in action, cold and efficient
not given to surface passion. Even its homegrown terrorist is
boring, but my god, able in his murderous pursuit for glory.
Streets in Oslo are clean too, so spotless they look somehow
defenseless and slightly obscene. The citizens are restraint
tolerantly wait at traffic lights to turn green to cross, even if
no cars are coming But there is an another Oslo, especially at
weekends, when people drink enormous amount of beer and
violence lurks, when fights break out and knives shine in
moonlit nights. A lust for murder that harks back to a shared
cataleptic memory. And you know there is a pent up passion,
in the dark heart of Scandinavia; that given the right order can
turn compassionate people into vicious Vikings.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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