Cobwebs Of Dreams
The cobwebs of Dreams
It was a clear day…too clear I thought. Mother sat in the kitchen
and sunlight made her white hair into a halo. I asked her who
old she was. Ninety two, she said, knew I was trapped in a dream
as she didn’t live that long. By the slow river I saw furniture drift
along. Brother said that people who lived downstream went
upstream to buy furniture, to save on transport cost they dumped
the stuff into the river where relatives, downstream, picked it up.
Sometimes they lost a table or a commode but that’s a risk one
has to take. I knew this too was a dream, Walked along a soft road,
in a forest, but something was wrong there was a strange red light
emitting from the trees, now I was trapped inside a painting by
a mad Russian artist; luckily I had a flick knife. It is morning, that is
I think it is, sometimes the line between reality and the subconscious
merges, perhaps yesterday is today
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Lost At Sea
Lost At Sea
It was a quiet night when I woke up in the small cabin I shared with
the other deck-boy. The porthole was open and brought a welcoming
cooling breeze and I fell asleep again wondering idly what the other
deck boy was up to. He was missed at eight o’clock by, the time his
watch began, the ship turned around and on the enormous sun sparkly
mirror, we looked for him. We knew this was hopeless but something
had to be written in the ship’s logbook.
His name was Terje, a puny little boy who cried a lot when shouted
at and therefore was an easy target to make fun of by the crew.
His steady masturbation had gone on my nerves, mostly because
he dried his fluid on the curtain that covered each bunk for privacy.
Crew, silent for a few days, feeling guilty for teasing him, I too felt
a nip of guilt I enjoyed having the cabin by myself, when we docked
in Port-of-Spain, Trinidad, Terje was all but forgotten.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Miracle
Miracle
The Dakota plane should have been scrapped years ago,
eight soldiers and me, they took off my handcuffs laughed
and said I was free to go. Looking down I could see glitzy
Pacific Ocean; they opened the door and threw me out.
I fell and fell, air rush sounded as an express train, terror
froze my brain, but I remember thinking: “this is not a day
for enjoying the view.”Miracle! A mist bank crossed my
path so thick it broke my fall to a gentle descent and put
me softly on top of a tree that had many branches, it was
like going down a ladder which I had done often, (I used
to be a house painter.) People came running, I had landed
on a tiny island, they gave me coconut milk to drink and
told of a military plane that had crashed on a mountain
slope. I didn’t, gloat knew what they must have suffered,
drank more sweet milk, climbed up a hut on stilts and went
to sleep on a fragrant mat of palm leaves.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Earthquake
Earthquake in Haiti
The corpses look like they have been flung down from the sky,
rejected by god for being too poor. Broken limbs and stillness in
the dust. There is a groundswell of a cry, a primitive anger that
has nowhere to go, but inwards eating the victims of injustice like
a virulent cancer. We are religious people who do our Ave Marias
and voodoo on the side. We pray to god and saints, so why this
devastation? Long deep trenches, a place for obese bodies, many
with hands stretching skywards as asking why did you forsake us?
And as always the heaven is silent, yet in the absence of hope and
the rumor of an angel is walking amongst the poor blessing them,
there is hope. But more body fall, rejected by the heaven; and our
bishop is dead too. The cry of anguish will tear us apart till we lose
our reason, sink to our knees and pray to a god that knows no mercy;
as cadavers keep falling from an indifferent sky.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Continuation
The Continuation
It is night they have all gone to bed, since I’m old and sleep little
my job is to keep the ember alive in the stove, add a piece of wood
now and then. My granddad used to do that keeping the flames
alive, so when the young got up the rooms wouldn’t be too cold.
I sit in darkness but see through curtains snow falling adding to
millions of other snowflakes, I know the children will be exited,
the adults less so. For me it doesn’t matter, but I haven’t forgotten
the pleasure of a snowy landscape. It is odd, me godless man, feel
an inner peace, everything that has happened fits together I have
meet my ghosts; nothing scares me anymore except rumours of
a new war. As a child I knew war and all its brutality, I was hoping
my grandchildren would be spared. I’m nearly falling asleep but my
granddad awakes me, whispers about my obligations, I add a piece
of wood to the fire and dream of yesteryear.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Adulterous Sea
The Adulterous Sea
I drove to the top of a mountain along lanes that began in the mist of time.
Looking north I could see the plateau of Alentejo, westward the Atlantic sea;
it was her, the trollop; I wanted to see from a safe distance. Glittering azure
tender and inviting, the tart. My bond to her, is that of a kind magistrate who
in his youth, visited a whore who served him sinful pleasures that gave him
a longing for the unobtainable. There were times, on deck, in tropical nights,
when she called my name and I could have drowned in her balmy embrace,
but she laughed turned away from me and loved someone else. I thought
she was forgotten, till she reappeared and smiled in the sea green eyes of
a woman I loved. She too walked away; loved someone else. I hear her song,
the bitch of my life, the whispering and undulating waves. And I say: “Just
one wicked embrace more, my lovely, and I will not dream of you anymore.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Reflection In A Phial
Reflection in Phial
I look at my hands they are brown as a farmer’s, this pleases me
although I have no tractor or a mule. A workman’s sturdy hands,
all socialists should have hands that have harvested carrots.
I flex the muscles of my upper arms, see the faint movement
like mice moving under thawing spring snow. Glorious vanity to
think I used to do 100 press ups a day only because I lived in fear
of being a weakling. I think of sex, and sadly conclude I never was
a great lover, when the act was done I reached for the book I was
reading. Yet women liked me because I was not pretentious, they
also tried to domesticate me as I had an affinity to walk my own
way and often ended up in seedy bars. The squalid side of life has
always mystified me, why does a person choose a road that leads to
ruin and hardship? I have always been lazy, strenuous effort will not
touch me. But I would like to have my muscular arms back.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Peacemaker
The Peacemaker
The animal stood in the corner of the room chewing on
a bail of straw, dung on the floor; a woman, with a bucket,
came and collected it for the rose bushes. We know Israel
has nuclear weapons, but unless we are drunk and in bad
mood we are too polite to mention it; so I left the senate.
Stood on a bridge, threw tiny rocks into the river, a yacht
passed, and her navigator was hit; collapsed, but got back
on his feet again and waved to me with his fist
The Israeli army had blocked the entrance to the bridge and
Hamas, dressed in stylish black and silk scarves, the exit,
I didn’t know how to end this poem so I invented the phone,
it rang, Obama, he didn’t know either, I held up the phone
so both parties could hear his voice and they backed off long
enough for me to get away home to my thistle valley, where
eagles fly, sheep bleat, and no one pays attention to biblical
prophesies and self igniting bushes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Lady And The Tramp
The Lady and the Tramp
I took the bus from Ellesmere Port to Birkenhead,
from there the underground to Liverpool, walked
to Hanover Street; took a rickety lift up four floors
to a studio where Miss Summers tried to teach me
to speak posh English. A hopeless task my Norse
accent refused to be relegated clung to my throat
like phlegm, the size of a jelly fish, and anyway,
when Miss Summer said my own voice was sexy
I decided to take acting lessons with her instead.
Alas this didn’t last; the doctor said I was fit to go
back to sea and I was sent to join a ship in Aruba.
I loved Miss Summers used to meet her secretly in ´
Southport on her days off, impressed me with her
noble manners it was like making love to a duchess.
The problem with being a seafarer is that when he
returns, life ashore has moved on. My teacher lady
had an acting job, when I rang her voice was arctic
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Late Night Movies
I wear denim trousers and a matching jacket in winters, this because
I always wanted to be a cowboy, the simple life, what can be simpler
than herding cows. I can’t afford buying a horse but nearly bought
a donkey once, but I have no stable and couldn’t leave it in room,
one can’t toilet train beasts; they will only knock the door down to
go outside for a pee. Oddly enough, once upon a time my living room
was a stable, a big pile of dry manure was the first that greeted me
when I bought the dwelling. But times moves on there are no beasts
of burden left, only tractors litter the landscape and the good smell
of sweaty animals has been replaced by diesel fumes.I wouldn’t mind
being a monk especially now that my sexual drive is in a steep decline,
but I’m not ascetic or contemplative enough so fit in. So I’ll stick to
being a horseless cowboy while trying to walk like john Wayne and
watch late night western movies.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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