End Of Austerity
End of Austerity
Winter had ice on the village pond, under elm trees sweet snow,
and our village was a postcard. Now it is about the price of potatoes,
no herring in the sea. Austerity, old women have been cooked and
made into lard. Old men have been rounded up, put in barrels and
salted; to be eaten, -as dry cod fish, - with green leaves of spring.
No winter wood, shot gun pellet damp and rabbits eat the carrots,
bankers live on curried eels rolled in euro notes, they let no one in.
Austrian mist dwells over Europe, yet there is the promise, EU has
disappeared like the romantic alpine fog; the drachma and escudos
are a legal tender again. Winter of discontent is over the English
will be scheming while waiting for approval by the USA (the special
relationship is a misty London dream) The French and Germans can
continue their natural enmity, as Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg
stir, as always, the big black pot of political intrigues.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Lonesomeness
At the news agent’s a woman in her forties spoke to me, said she had
lived in Algarve for two years, from Romania, used to be a doctor, but
here she could only get a job as a cleaning lady. I dislike being spoken
too by people I don’t know; perhaps I look of avuncular and reliable.
I commiserated with her plight and began walking away, but I can’t out
walk anyone she followed said she was looking for a friend in this cold,
cruel world. I occurred to me since she was lonely had become a little
unhinged. Men tend to drink too much when alone, women fantasize
about true romance, for both it is often a one way road to oblivion.
I was waiting for my wife she had been to the bank, when she showed
up the other woman shrunk off, but my wife wanted to know who that
woman was, like I should know. No one should be so alone they accost
strangers in the street it is sad and scary for those spoken too. Loneliness
is a curse and can make people mad.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Rednecks
Rednecks
Long time ago when a man called Goldwater was
running for president, I was walking along a road
just outside Mobile, Alabama. What I was doing
there is long forgotten but I recall having a day off
from my ship, and going from bar to bar.
I did notice that the sidewalk was weedy clearly
people did no walking. A pickup truck stopped,
three burley men wanted to give me a lift, dared
not refuse they had gun racks and armed for civil
war that steadfastly refused to appear.
They asked me about Goldwater whom I had read
about in “Newsweek” but I stated ignorance.
They drove me back to Mobile and I assured them
I loved America; gave me a six-pack, warned me
not to speak to black people and commies.
I was told they were rednecks; which I know see
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Letter To A Young Poet
Dear Raman, so you want me to read your poem and state my opinion.
Well, you are fond of words and you are stacking them up in your poem.
That is a good thing; clearly you are a man who reads a lot.
So you want to be a poet, poetry is self indulgent’ it never starts a war
nor finished it. Should a poet write something that resonance with,
the sentiment of a nation, you can be sure it will be used by politicians
and interpreted for their dubious plans.
So why don’t you become an engineer or failing that, a cook. The world
doesn’t need, anymore academic poets who forever repeat what poets
of yore have said. For the people a poet is regarded as a figure of fun
who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make sense
of a world they don’t understand. As my father said when I published
my first poem: “How much did they pay you? ” So if my words have not
scared you off you’re a poet. All you need is intellectual honesty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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How To Write A Novel
How to write a Novel
I like to write a book, any book as long as it has my name on the cover.
A one day course, how to write a novel. The course leader, a published
writer, wore a long dress but I could see her ankles, they were beautiful
and much younger than the rest of her. Dyed, red hair, face very pale,
presumable from sitting in all day writing how-to books.
Beginning, middle and an end, yes, like life, capricious in the middle,
the ending tends to write itself. Sudden endings are best, run over by
a bus, or a train crash, where cell phones go on ringing in the broken
interior. Then silence. Long ending are best being avoided, hospital bed
pages after pages, endless days, exhausted relatives.
Lovely ankles, did she paint her toenails red? She wore flat shoes
sensible for any woman over fifty. Classroom empty, they had all gone
out for lunch, I went to the pub and stayed there. Beginning, middle and
an ending, what more is there to know?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Nagasaki mon amour
Nagasaki Mon Amour
There are moments when things become clear. A night, the Pacific Ocean was,
as its name, calm; I sat on deck and listened to the heartbeat of the ship,
which seemed to beat faster when one of the engineers opened the door and
came out on deck. I heard laughter from the mess-room they were playing
cards but I knew I would never be one of them, I had tried, the swagger and
the misogyny, living in a world where women were either whores or mothers.
The ship was bound for Nagasaki, which for the young crew meant little, but
I had been here before and visited a graveyard where Portuguese sailors had
died long time ago when Japan was an unknown land. At sixty I was a relic
and accepted that. Berthed. Walking down the gangway, I didn’t bother to look
back, didn’t shake anyone’s hand- it was dinner time anyway. Before flying back
to Europe I tried to find the Portuguese cemetery, it wasn’t there anymore;
another relic gone.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Chair Person
The Chair Person.
The woman, who was chairing the meeting, wore a flowering
dress of an expensive material, she wore much gold and with
her tan she looked almost like a rich gipsy lady only less elegant.
It wasn’t that she was very fat but her lips where huge, too red
and octopus greedy and her fingers, when resting on the table
looked like guillotined, corpulent men, blood still dripping and
when lesser charges shared it looked as she mentally hurried
them on so she could speak.
There was something insincere about her, maybe she didn’t
have problem, but this was the only place people tolerated her.
Beautiful summer evening windows open, I heard bird song,
sun was setting into an azure sea. at home I had a cold bottle
of white wine waiting. Must have dreamt there was a grave
silence in the room, I looked up the woman was glaring at me
waiting for me to share something, I looked up to the roof and
counted the beams and thus the meeting ended
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Broremann’s War
Spring,1945, German troops in his town were walking about not
carrying arms, they spoke to the locals in a friendly manner.
Looking back it was peace before the peace. Near Broremann's home
there was a tall house occupied by old non- commissioned officers,
middle-aged men in their thirties with children, gave the kids
chocolate and sweets (after the war the building was taken over by
Mormons) .
British troops arrived, put a canteen in a disused fish factory,
the German troops had surrendered. Broremann got white bread
with spam from the British. The Germans left by train; many
of the town´s people came to wave goodbye, there was no
dislike against the common soldiers, wrath was directed at the
local Gestapo who had betrayed their country by being crueler
than the enemy and by sporting rimless Himmler glasses.
Years later Broremann met a docker in Hamburg who had spent
five war years in his town. They drank together and declared
it had been a peaceful war.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Dog Power
Dog Power
Abandoned she was and hungry so I took her home. she was scared and hid under
the kitchen sink. I put water and food out and went to bed. She ate it all.
In the morning she came out and made it clear she wanted to go out. Well she did
her business and came back in. When she was two years old she grabbed a packet
of cigarettes from the table and tore it up. So I stopped smoking. People had
implored me to stop, no awhile, she did the trick. I never liked having visitors in
the evening but was too polite to say so. Well. She fixed that to. The only thing she
hated was having a bath. After having one she pretended I didn’t exist until
neighbour told her how nice she looked. She didn’t like female dogs, male dogs
she made short shrift of. She woke me up in the morning and if I sat still too long
writing she took me for walk. She had trained me so well that the day she died
I felt quite helpless and didn’t know what to do the following day.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Anniversary
Birthdays when you are old reminds you of the grave,
you see it a freshly dug hole waiting just for you.
People bring you wine, what else do an old man needs?
Guests getting high on wine they brought you and it is all
jolly. I try to join in. wife has made an effort candlelight
and so on guests are people I never see unless meeting
them at a pretentious art exhibition; and I think of my
childhood when birthdays were important, I tell stories
of a past of poverty and need; wife disrupts saying
I should forget about the past, how can I it shaped me
for what I´m today? Cakes I think of are those I never had
in my infancy; cakes I baked, with condensed milk, when
the captain had his birthday -if he was an ass hole I spat in
the dough-, on ships made into nails somewhere in hot
Bangladesh. How tired I´m lost in the past. Guests leave
the old man´s party, but my wife is not stunned when calm
falls I have to collect the dirty glasses and do the dishes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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