Sand Of Time
Sand of Time
I was on my way to the doss house near the railway station,
it was quarter to eight -had to be in by eight or lose my bed-,
when I saw her in the restaurant talking to her brother, they
shared a bottle of wine. My god, she was as beautiful as ever.
And since it was dark outside I reckoned she didn’t see me,
her brother looked out; perhaps he recognized me because
he bent towards her and whispered something, but before
she could look up I had disappeared into shadows. It was now
ten to eight I ran to the doss house run by The Salvation Army.
I could only have a shower once a week and had been wearing
the same suit for a long time. It was a grey worn suit, but it gave
me a sense that I had some dignity left. However deep a person
falls, he can get up again and in time buy a new suit. This evening
remembering my time of wretchedness, and it struck me I can no
longer remember her face.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Fine Film Of Sadness
A Fine Film of Melancholy
On the morning track gossamers blocked my path, on them hung morning dew,
like glittering pearls of insane perfection; and in the zephyr I heard a faint peel.
Tears not cried, yet full of sadness, fell to hard, stony ground. Picked up a rock,
man’s first missile, threw it, for no reason, into the bushes. There are places
where vegetation is sparse, life hard, they still execute people for transgression,
say adultery, by stoning. We, who have made pornography into a mainstream
thing, “looking at pictures of other people having sex) are shocked by this. But
we kill a murder suspect, who can’t afford a good lawyer, by lethal injection.
The gossamers, sheer and delicate will be rebuilt I will have to break as few as
possible tomorrow. Melancholy, I can’t do anything about un-cried tears; they
will dry as the day rolls on and the evening breeze will give us peace of mind
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Worlds Biggest Rat
World’s Biggest Rat.
A moonlit evening, behind a supermarket in Denmark, a guard
spotted a very big rat and he got his dog to kill it. The biggest
rat in the world so big it couldn’t live in the sewer, it makes
you proud to be Danish. With so much food around in streets
and in supermarket’s bin, could easily feed the poor. But there
is no poor people in Denmark! Vermin is a problem, one can’t
put them on a lorry and send them to another country.
There was a picture of the rat in the papers, a conceited guard,
we didn’t his dog though, held it aloft like trophy. It turned to
be a mother rat when it was dissected at the lab, eight baby rats
waiting to be born. More and more, long tailed rodents are
roaming streets, emptying bins and eating our babies in their
cots. One wonders if they are listening to the ancient prophecy: ”
One day vermin shall live in the sunlight side by side with man.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Longest Fall
The Mighty Fall
I fell through the night under me I could see white crested waves
of the sea and there was little I could do to stop this freefall.
It took 3 minutes to reach the unforgiving surface of the vast ocean.
I screamed like a hurt animal and began sinking could not breaths,
fought and struggled to be free of this huge amount of water; and
there it was my heaven, full moon pulling me upwards so I could
fly and dream amongst stars; but I had to swim to Saragossa and
find the secret island always hidden in a miasma of the absolved.
I could not do it alone. On my back floated my body was anemone
and incredible beautiful. The sea was a mirror now, yes, affable as
it is when looked at by a young girl of eighteen, I was held back by
the sea as the moon tried to possess me they both wanted me and
this filled me with ecstatic happiness as the current slowly helped
me to reach the dawn of Saragossa.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Christmas Remembered
A Christmas Remembered
Day before Christmas it was cold and we walked down
to the harbour to buy a tree and I remember the sea
that slapped against the dock was apple green and foamy.
Mother bought a tree, for next to nothing, since its top
was broken and it looked like a rejected child that waited
for a car to come pick it up and bring it to the orphanage
By putting the tree on top of the dinner table and a star
and a bit of glitter it looked nice in a child’s eye.
Mother was angry we didn’t know way, and went to bed.
We children sat on the floor and ate lukewarm rice pudding
and there was nothing under the tree. Mother got up told
us to dress and we walked to my uncle’s house. At first he
didn’t want to let her in, but when he saw us children he
opened the door. We had plenty to eat although my aunt
had a sour mien. But happy we walked home and thought
we had had a splendid Christmas.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Storm And An Old Cargo Ship
A storm is blowing outside, but my cottage is safely anchored on
terra firma. If my abode had been pitching and rolling as ship on
a restless ocean I would not been so cocky, but on my seaman’s
legs stagger about worrying about foamy sea washing the deck
hitting portholes in green fury. As a seafarer I loved the calm sea,
but feared its wroth. The terrible shudder when a big wave hit
and nearly drowning the ship, there was nothing anyone could
do but hope. Yes she did it and I couldn’t help falling in love with
the old girl and call her a swan that knew how to take care of me.
I have a respect for nature I have been helpless in its embrace
waiting what comes next. I survived, sit in a cottage and listen to
the storm, yet I would give years just to once more be out there
taking my chances, and when safely in port, eagerly raise my glass
in the knowledge of that I had been given another day of life.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Vale Of Peace
The Vale of Peace
It is overcast in the valley and rounded hills, luckily there
is no coal here no slag heaps, disfigure the quit scenery;
this is quieter now than before, people only drive when
they must, in time of austerity and high gasoline prices.
The wind is acerbic and in no mood to be nice, although
it blows from the south, which often gives a lovely aroma
of milkmaids breaths, contented, cream drinking cats and
engaging, giggly love amongst hey stacks.
The shepherd and his flock cross the road, he has a dark
outdoor face, craggy as a volcanic mountain and it carries
a melancholic mien of one, who spends much time alone,
and his sheep look as terracotta figures in fading light.
Wooly -backs are not known for being conversationalists;
except for bleating now and then they eat. I turn also this
is not a day for walks, better lit the fire be contemplative
and gently subdued on this overcast day.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Melancholy 1
Melancholy
On an impulse I went to see my daughter, who lives in a hilly town
with bad roads. My ex girlfriend walked in, she is an unfinished love
story, sun tanned and beautiful, but she had been drinking, and
didn’t see me. She wanted to drink some more, people tried to stop,
her, she shrugged them off, unsteadily walked out to find a tavern or
two. Later that evening I booked into a hotel and could hear her tipsy
laughter in the bar. I didn’t join the set, but went up to my room.
It turned out she had a room next to mine and later I endured her
having sex with a man she had picked up somewhere. Met her in
the breakfast room next morning, her casual lover had long since gone
and she appeared glad to see me. We chatted about the old days,
held hands and her eyes were sea green. We made love in my bed,
she was warm and giving as always; tremor in her hands she had
a whisky and fell asleep in my arms.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Face
The Face
On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that
has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face,
of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his
shop, now he had to rush out, buy up pastries in other
places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own,
but he got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his
burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell
them to children on their way to school, or old folks who
are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag.
His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery - they haven’t
been married long- they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get
the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset
him during baking hours, he isn’t mad at her, not since
she told him she had a bun in the oven herself.
And the tree, it’s an olive tree- silvery in winter light- is
silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Discontent
Winter of discontentment
I fear my almond tree has bloomed too early, a few good days,
it and I thought it was spring. Cold wind, they may die before
the flowers are ready to shed their petals and pretend its snow.
We are both stalwarts, when I first came here it was but
a sapling. I have a fire roaring and the dog no one looks after
is sleeping on the chair near the fire. Weather bad I didn’t have
the heart to leave it outside. I’m not prince Charles I don’t talk
to trees, but I do give it a friendly slap on its trunk if no one is
looking. I’m a sucker for down and outs, today I bought a chicken
dinner for the Roma woman who begs outside the supermarket.
A guard came and told me I mustn’t feed them, like they should
be some sort of animals. I love my almond tree it reminds me
of mother when she was sick and old, but beautiful in her frailty.
There was little I could do only tell of my love for her.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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