3%
3%
My shirt is torn I’m bloodied by thorns of anger. The bushes by the narrow track
are almost covering It, I tried to fight my way trough, the maze but lost. I have to
leave this territory to its own device; it will not listen to my 3% growth rate as
they expand at will. Born free, just like the Taliban. I could have made a nice
suburban garden here, one with rules, respect for law & order with democratic
trimmed hedges, soft lawn and palm trees, palms tend to decorate resorts, they
lend dignity to places that charge a lot of money so city dwellers can enjoy tame
nature with their Martinis. Palm trees have good genes, perfect education, Eton,
the rest of us are trained apes, we pick the coco nuts stand in awe, we admire
our exploiters. I walk in our town’s park now, gardeners keep, it trim, it’s as lovely
as unwritten postcards bought at a tourist route that has a growth rate of 3 %.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sonnet
A Fairy Tale (sonnet)
On a forest’s lawn, where elves dance on nocturnal summers,
snow had fallen. Since the little people wears no shoes their
dainty feet can only bear ductile mould and grass in slumber.
They have moved into their cozy houses under green bushes,
homes lit up fireflies caught in summer when evening lasts till
midnight and they need not hide their light under a bushel.
But boars are not so delicate they rough and tumble in snow
and rock around the clock all night when stars are bright and
heaven is near, till the stars get very tired and stop their glow.
Much more snow will fall and hide their irresponsible dancing,
and the snowy stage is taken by white attired hares that jump
about for no reason at all, till the sly red foxes come prancing.
The tall cow of the forest arrives, scrapes away pristine flurry
looking for fine moss to munch and the forest falls eerily fluffy.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Meandering
Meandering
The moon tonight looks like a golden gondola sailing on a black sea
only casting anchor at dawn. I remember a gondola trip in Venice
grey water, cabbage, onions and apple peels, I wished the gondolier
had been quieter. I sailed across the Black Sea once, from Georgia
To the Dardanelles, and sea was frosty white.
We anchored just outside Istanbul waiting for clearance, small boats
came sold us sweet wine and liqueurs. After an endless journey on
an old ship we drank too much and got sick, but for a few hours we
forgot about the poverty of our wretched life.
An endless voyage to Reykjavik, Iceland, the sea around the island
was dark blue. But the beer there was so insipid that we had no chance
to forget our misery. Moon, it has no business looking like a gondola,
it is a balloon. So bring in the empty horses; suave was David Niven
you couldn’t see he was acting his socks off.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Past
The Past
I live in a cottage that is 350 years old, wish I could have seen a ghost,
because I believe they exist. When I moved in here part of it had been
a stable and on warm nights I can still smell hey and the mule that lived
in what is now my living room. When I first came here ancient voices
emitted from the walls, people who had lived her before had toiled
the soil and lived in poverty. One cannot erase the history of past
generations where people had lived, even if their physical bodies are
no longer here but their souls remain and speak to us if we care to listen.
The cottage seemed content that someone had moved in, no house likes
to be abandoned. New roof, plastered wall voices subsided and waned
altogether, yet on this hot night I do hear sighs, smell the mules sweat.
Is it my imagination only if I see the contour of the animal and see a man
stroking its head? And talking softly.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Biggest Flood
The Biggest Flood
Pakistan, the biggest flood ever recorded the newscaster tells me,
has he forgotten about the biblical flood and Noah?
I could be that after years of flooding in Noahland that he got
the idea of building a boat, big enough for his family and cattle.
Of course his neighbours thought he had lost it, his sons too were
skeptical but helped their father building a wide hulled boat;
in the inn at night they often got into fist fights, when funny
remarks were made about their father’s crazy venture.
After weeks of rain he boarded and boat and it didn’t sink.
When the rain stopped and the sky was clear all Noah could see
was water everywhere. Not a navigator Noah just drifted about
hoping to find land; and as water level fell he hit a reef which
turned out to be a grassy mountain slope. The biblical story is
certainly true, if it isn’t it is still worth thinking about its wisdom.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Doomed Padre
The Loss of Faith
Fated priest when he walks in front of a funeral
procession his gait is often wobbly, says it is stiff
joints; smells of aftershave lotion and brandy.
Lost his faith years ago, in the night his prayer
echoes in the village church.
Thinks it his fault that god has left him in a vacuum
of disbelief a penance for not having a total godly
deference. In his dreams he meets god who speaks
in a language he doesn´t understand; he wakes up
bedroom bleak, and the voice of god has gone.
He says as Jesus once did, why have you forsaken me?
Has a brandy goes back to a restless sleep.
And there is no peace as sexual needs takes over,
actions he will not abide. Morning and he is thankful.
Routines of the day someone has died, funeral service,
and a woman who wants confess her banal sins,
he murmurs prayers, waits for god to answer why he
has lost his faith, but there is only silence.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Telling The Truth
Telling of Truths
A brown horse galloped across a snowy field at the end
of the pasture a fence, it jumped over and continued its
crazy gallop into the woods only came to a shuddering
halt when it saw a moose. Steaming nostrils, the moose
charged, horse fled deeper into the woods. Where it met
a forest troll who took it into his cave and gave the horse
a bucket of hot chocolate to drink. Since the snow deep
and tiring to sink into when walking, the troll also fitted
the horse with snow shoes; also, the troll had no need of
a horse led it back to its field. When the farmer came to
fetch his horse and saw the snowshoes, he had a nervous
breakdown and sent away to an asylum, where doctors
tried to convince him it was all in his mind. But the farmer
would have none of it. So he is still there and they will not
release him until he agrees with them that a horse wears
iron shoes and not snowshoes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sex And The Medical Profession
Sex and the Medical Profession
I’m sitting in my car waiting for my wife who is at mass
I find it impossible to believe in any religion, but I say
nothing it is important for my wife to believe in a merciful
god. Paris, and agony, my wife prayed but did call
an ambulance. Battling doctors, how young they are, I felt
like a low paid, reluctant actor in a hospital drama, one
who has to play the nurse when he really wanted to be
the famous heart transplant surgeon.
The doc asked if I smoked. No! She looked sullen since
I didn’t, it is so easy to blame the fag. I said I had smoked
15 years ago, she looked relieved and told me to keep up
the good, work: she removed the catheter a lovely pee
Is better than sex, if temporarily, now I feel like making
love, my wife tells I’m deluded, I say nothing but bid my
time, keep a blanket in my car in case I should meet
someone who is equally barmy.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Forgotten One
The forgotten One
Mary Joe where are you know? Forgotten bones in a grave yard?
He was such a dashing man and you drove with him through
the night, crossing a bridge that wasn’t there, into the water and
then you where alone breathing through pockets of air in the car.
Struggling to breaths the air, between the roof of the car and water,
getting smaller, but you just knew he was coming to rescue you,
he was such a nice boy. When you knew he wasn’t coming and
there was no more air to breath you knew you had been a rich
man’s toy and your tears mingled became the sea. Mary Joe
I have not forgotten you, the man who betrayed you is dead, they
gave him a great send off the president and the famous came to his
funeral., and amongst the speeches no one mentioned your name.
Even your parents were paid off not to mention your name, yet
I do remember your face from the press and I will remember you.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Drumbeat Of War
The Drum Beat of War.
Smoke came from the mountain pass troops marched to the border,
general mobilizing declared, the old spoke of wars of yore the young
stopped slouching and looked around for the enemy. Ministers and
king wore uniform, laws were passed against a fifth columnists and
against anyone who had a different opinion than the norm; although
many were arrested no one was tried. War cry had brought order from
the chaos of democratic peace.
The jingoistic fever lasted all summer a good time for marching and
military parades, women wore flowers in their hair ready to kiss loved
ones goodbye. Fall rain, the north-westerly blew cold and war didn’t
happen, leaders congratulated themselves for winning the peace, and as
big snowflakes slowly fell so did our realisation that we open eyed had
marched into an open prison and could no longer travel anywhere, in
our country, without a passport.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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