Love Unrequested
The lady across the road had beautiful grey hair, thick and
glossy, I admired her mane because she was eighty five.
Her hubby about her same aged died, I attended the funeral,
open casket, in death he looked handsome, old man asleep.
When people get old some do not realize how old they are,
and the old lady, since I had admired her lovely hair, thought
we could be a couple; only I was fifty two at the time and not
overly interested. The lady took offence felt humiliated since
she already had told the villagers I loved her.
A day when I was doing a bit of weeding around the house
She came out; called me a womanizer hit me with her umbrella.
Well I´m not heroic, fled into the house and bolted the door;
and the villagers were greatly amused. She moved to a rest
home and I could go out without being assaulted. I read in
the paper she had just died at hundred and five, but I will not
attend her funeral….I think.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Pavement Cafe
In the café where I sit I can see the village’s church, nice building
typical Portuguese architecture and painted white. I walked inside
it once, didn’t like that so much, as it had dark corners and whiffed
of sins not yet forgiven. It is quiet here now as the people prepare
for winter sleep in damp houses. There are a few tourists about
mostly elderly bad on their feet. The church bell tolls one o’clock,
it is good to know time even in Paradise. Today I will go for a walk
in the village’s cemetery a lovely place full of flowers and often
with pictures of the departed when they looked ruddily healthy
and the claw of death had yet to touch them; and I mustn’t forget
the good silence. Whatever the argument was it means nothing
anymore. The waiter brings me a coffee and a sly cigarette which
I smoke with guilty pleasure, yet looking out for my doctor he often
comes here for his coffee. Yes, this is another perfect day.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Erection
Erection
August heat I sent in a comment to an article in the Guardian,
dislike many of their readers, but it is a good paper, even if it
tends to lose its nerves and waffle a bit when the pressure is on.
I look to see if anything is written about lack of erection, not long
ago my member could carry a beach towel, a party trick for one
witness, now it will not even carry a paper napkin. I could write
and ask the woman who is married to a comedian and has a sexual
healing column in the Guardian, only I don`t like her much I think
she’s fraud; and the comedian she married stop being funny after
he dastardly divorced his first wife and married her. When working
class people are successful they tend to marry “up” that is because
they meet lots of new and well spoken people, who flatter them,
but they are wrong they will be sandpapered down lose their strength
to suit the middle class taste; rich they will be, so who cares?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Hibernation
Hibernation
Occupy falling snow; claim it make a snowman with coal eyes and
carrot nose before winter is over and your task runs through your
fingers as water into soft the soil and is privatized when it runs into
a deep lake and you must pay if you want a drink or take a shower.
A carrot not enough to make soup, pieces of coal are not enough to
warm your cold hands. The barons of money have bought streams,
forests and mountains, fenced in and there are gates, you must pay
if you want to walk and see nature at her most enthralling liberty.
And you will think; where is our emancipation to express ourselves?
Nothing is free, why should it be? This is democracy the right to buy
and sell the world’s resources and charge whatever the market says.
And you pay for what is rightfully yours. If you do not occupy it now it
will be too late, spring is the name of misery and it is your fault for
sleeping when snow fell in your garden.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sydney
The ship has docked in Sydney harbour officials
have come and gone now the ship is eerily silent,
yet noisy slamming of doors and someone taking
a shower…laughter. How can I sleep tonight with
the engine stopped? How can I read and not hear
human bravura? Sod it all, someone strums a guitar,
and I hear the fizzing sound of canned beer flipped
open. No this can´t go on better go ashore, a bar,
drink a few schooners, try joining the hubbub of man
at ease and not think of the sea, dolphins blue,
white crested waves and the hum of the sea goddess,
that teases me for my cowardice for not taking
the plunge and be as beautiful as the seascape of my
impossible dreams. Easy, tomorrow will be a mundane
Tuesday and we, if the dockers do not strike, should
be bound for Brisbane where the beer tastes the same,
of amalgamated breweries. Yet, despite my lack of fine
culture, I saw Sidney opera house casting dignified light
into the bay…
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Pre Spring
Pre Spring
It had stopped raining I went for a walk, the sun came for a visit and
it got hot. Took my coat off, marched on till the sun had had enough
and rolled back home. The almond tree, by the lane, looked puny
spindly twigs for branches, and grey bark. Ghostlike if it hadn’t been
so pathetically ugly. Looked closer and saw a pair of pink buds on its
a twig. Now the tree was beautiful and I fretted about the chill in
the wind and if frost comes in the night, will it snuff out this new life?
I took pictures of the buds, but the photos were a bit blurred and
colours not so bright as those I saw with naked eyes, yeah, like my
eyes should be undressed most of the time, or hidden behind dark
sunglasses. In about three weeks, if all goes well, my bare, nutty tree
will be covered in pink flowers and look lovely. Elderly hearts will
feel young again and beat too hard. In the vale, where I live, there are
many funerals in March.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Tango In Argentina
Tango in Argentina
It was eons ago, in Buenos Aires, many of us around a table at a cafe
I can’t remember why I was there think it was something to do with
buying race horses. A woman asked me up to dance I first declined,
shyness is my bane, after prodding I trotted up on the dance floor.
The band played a tango, not that I hadn’t dance before, mother was
a dance teacher, something happened, I forgot about my timidity
just danced floating on a cloud of pleasure. We’re alone on the floor,
when the music stopped, applause. Back at our table dad gave me
a glass of wine, the dream continued. I wanted to marry Dona Juanita,
my dancing partner; dad said no, she was married and too old for me.
But I have never since been able to emulate the magic of the moment
When I see a colt galloping across the pampas I know of the physical
pleasure it feels, once it was me feeling exuberant and timeless in
a world of everlasting youth.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Shanty
A Shanty.
I will walk to where the open mass grave of
bleached sandstones is, the grave is flanked
by sober olive trees, which have silvery leaves
and in the breeze remind me of the Black Sea.
I was on tank-ships walked on iron decks and
dreamt of sandy beaches, when ship docked
miles of pipes and oil refineries was on offer,
and lights of cities were always too far away.
Badly paid and far from home this was not
a song of a “Youngman Jansen’s life; a loss
of time if you ask me. The slam of an engine
door a watch over, the sea was isolation.
Ashore together fearful of wolves that circled
us looking for the weakest in the flock, drink
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Make-believe
Make-believe
The olive tree had three trunks Siamese triplets?
It was old and gnarled, some of its branches had
no leaves and it was lost in an abstract, cosmic
dream and not aware of its surround; I touched
the perennial and thus gave it soul.
A mild breeze blew, a fluttering of leaves and
the three could see the blue sky where a silvery
bird flew northward glinting in the sun. It could
also see how cute other trees looked, when aware
how ugly it was dawn dew dripped from leaves.
Wished it could be a cosmic dream again and
not know of time and place. But look, its tears
had fertilised the ground and around its trunk
flowers so rare they had still to get a Latin name,
sprung up from red/rusty soil.
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Psychopath
The Psychopath
The lane is siesta empty, meanders forever amongst
olive trees and budding almond flowers, but afar I see
a black clad man, an ominous shadow, marching
towards me. He has got one hand in his pocket, a knife?
Bet he is a psychopath out to see if he can kill someone
without being caught. Nowhere to run fields are soggy
and he’s younger than me; he will catch up and plunge
a knife in me when I’m exhausted. When he stops and
looks around to be sure there are no witnesses, I quickly
bend down and pick up a big stone I can hit him over
the head with it, I think I’m stronger than him. He looks
tense as he passes me on the opposite side of the lane,
I stop pretend to look at the sky, can’t let him thrust his
knife in my back. He’s running now, see him disappear
around a sharp bend but I wait till sure he ain’t coming
back, I better arm myself with a kitchen knife next time
I go out the world is full of bad people.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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