The Schooner
The Schooner
On the flatland between the vales I could see the sea, had been
walking uphill for a long time now, after the plain it was downhill
and the way to the coast was easy enough only it was getting
cold and I wore a light navy uniform. (had been on furlough)
Then I saw a protestant house of worship, but it was there on its
own no other houses to be seen not even a lone light from a farm.
A window was open and since it was also getting dark I was tired
I climbed in and rested on a pew.
Fell asleep, awoke and heard organ music the church was full of
matelotes singing psalms. The pastor spoke about sin, redemption
and god’s glory, then his flock silently left. Dawn, I saw a magnificent
sunrise, continued my walk to coast.
In a morning open café I told a girl behind the counter where I had
slept, she looked confused as far as she knew the church was
torn down years ago since it was haunted, as it was built of planks
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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Winter Of Discontent
The phone rang a day before Christmas a message I knew would come
but would not like to hear. Mother had died and there was a great haste
now before the festive season. Yet in my despair I picked up the phone
and rang her number in the hope it had all been a dreadful mistake…any
minute now she will answer be glad to hear my voice; and she would tell
me I’m susceptible to cold and remember to wear a scarf.
Fully awake I rushed to the airport, sorry fully booked till after Christmas.
“Please if there is a cancellation ring me.” The phone didn’t ring.
When I finally got there snow had covered flowers and her name was not
yet carved on a stone. This emptiness, this hole in my heart, I knew it had
to happen one day, but not now not ever. At her home they were busy
dividing her things. No I didn’t want anything only her reading glasses,
she had thought me how to read. A life had ended and for the first time in
my life I knew how it felt like to be alone under a cold Nordic sky.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Woman´s World
It is a woman´s world
The new sex symbols are men they want to look like
muscular heroes seen on TV and on films.
They train several times a day to get a perfect body
other men have, thinking they must to attract women,
but all they attract are other men who fall into
the same trap what a beautiful body is the beginning
and a goal by itself. Why is it that men have been
reduced to think of their body must be perfect when
it by itself has little value? In a world where women
are equal; men subconsciously think they have in order
to attract women must look nice and attractive.
But women are not stupid they may adore a beautiful
Body, but they prefer, after having a fling with a body
builder, marry a man with prospects who can give
them security and economic stability. Women are not
romantic, they pretend to be, but prefer to marry
a man who can look after their children regardless if
the man are the real fathers or not, because a man
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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The New Tyranny
The New Tyranny
This dawn after rain had trumpeting its force on the old roof tiles
It ceased a soft a soft drizzle, Yes I know I should get up at eight
steeped as I’m in a protestant work ethic, but overcome by
laziness slept for another hour. In my drowsiness I thought how
our freedom has been restricted by the internet.
Our thoughts and secrets are no longer our property but shared
by authorities that want to know our innermost thoughts, we are
prisoners of an all embracing society that will not tolerate thoughts
other than the banal comments about friends’ birthdays.
What was heralded to be a great instrument of communication is
spied upon by our leaders who know more about us now then
the Stasi did in East Germany. Free speech only exist for those who
have nothing to say and accept living in the land of conventions.
Nothing can be nobler if we demand our right not to be censured
and called seditious because we will not be trapped into trivial
acceptance of perceived lies.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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When Autumn Begins
When Autumn Begins
20 hundred hours…is that nautical enough for you? Evening sky was marvelous,
I should have been a painter my anemic words cannot justify the awe the world
still can offer us who are not blind. Blaring horns, the road back home is narrow
and impatient drivers wanted to pass I pulled over and a driver shouted: “fools
like you should be banished from driving. “ Guess he was right. It was darkening
quickly big juicy drops hit asphalt drummed on the roof and hollered: “save us
take us home we don’t want fall on a useless road, we’ll water your rose bushes,
the thorny ones that cut your arms when you try to prune them, we can promise
a dew fresh rose for you lapel.” Right! Like I should be a city gent, I haven’t got
a suit, so there. Afar a fog horned blared melancholically, once I was a seafarer
but the roses I met in harbour bars, had only vulgar beauty to offer. At home rain
fell on old tiles, I made a whisky mixed with rose dew and thought of lost love.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Art Of Catering
The Art of Catering
There was a time I believed everything I read, even in Reader’s Digest.
one such story was about a French soldier in the world war one who,
in his breast pocket carried a notebook full of verses written for his
true love in Lyon, a daughter of a welder. His adulation saved his life.
It was not for me to reflect upon how a note book could stop a bullet.
I told mother I wanted to join the French foreign legion get wounded,
not too serious mind, all this to impress the girl next door she didn’t
like bookish boys who wore round black framed glasses. I threw my
glasses away and for two weeks couldn’t read and tended to walk into
lampposts. I challenged the biggest bully in the school yard for a fight…
and got a bloody nose. I became a trainee cook and the girl next door
laughed till she cried. Back then cooking was not a big deal. Now that
no one, not even women know how to make an omelet cooks or chefs
are super stars and show their skills to adoring fans on TV.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Ploughed Fields
Ploughed Fields.
My neighbour has started his tractor diesel fume wafts through the open kitchen window.
On his way to plough the field across the road, dark furrows in damp soil, birds sit in trees
read the upturned soil for tidbits. My neighbour doesn’t read has no computer, and give
damn about wikileaks; evenings he and his wife sit in their kitchen and watch soaps, news
is too boring. Me, I’m amazed the stupidity of the unscripted soap news is, this struggle for
dominance, making friends with vile dictators in the hope of landing a fat military contract
selling hardware and to have a base so they can keep an eye on the opposition. Winner and
losers in a mortal dance embraced by phony friendship. And when a tyrant goes against our
interest we kill him off and look for one who can do our bidding. What the people want is
banalities such as peace and democracy, but that’s too bothersome. My neighbour knows
this and let birds fight amongst themselves over title tattles and succulent worms.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Before Wine Is Drunk
Before wine is drunk
We are going to an art exhibition this afternoon, but first we have to
buy groceries, cabbage, leek, bread, margarine, milk and tomatoes.
You can’t eat a picture even if it displays an orange beside a banana,
“I will give you “The Scream” for a boiled potato and a slice or two
of yesterday’s loaf, ” the poor artist said. I had no time to cook, gave
him ten shilling and hung the painting in the toilet; it was stolen by
a guest who needed a leak. He sold it for a million; the painter got
his photo in the newspaper and was never hungry again, I have a pale
square on the bathroom wall. Günter Grass, I always think of horses
when mentioning his name, paints still-life and his yellow in lemons
is stunning, I drink tea with citron for weeks after seeing his work.
I have no original paintings on my walls. But many prints, and that’s
ok, I just like art, but dislike fake experts who think they know what
the painter thought of when putting wonder on his blank canvass.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Middle Class In Algarve
Middle Class Retirees. (Algarve)
When she gets up her husband has gone to the golf course, she drinks
a cup of weak tea and has a toast without butter. Then the grooming
begins it takes hours, hair, nails the right dress to choose, takes time;
after all she is going to meet the other ladies and they are a critical lot.
She drives her white Mercedes and tries to park as close as possible
near the café, when she enter there are kisses, big smiles and furtive
looks how the other ladies are dressed, colour combination and so on.
They all have long decorated nails this indicated they have a maid to
do the dishes; they chat is about film stars and others in the news and
how they dress. The ladies eat cream cakes and forget for a moment
about dieting. This séance last about two hours and is the highlight of
ladies day. She drives home, changes her frock, makes a meal for her
hubby just home and suntanned from his golfing, and tells him to take
a shower since they are going to an art exhibition at eight.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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When The Running Stops
When the Running Stops
In the enclose, outside the slaughterhouse, sheep were running in rings,
first to the left, and then to the right; in the end there was only one left
and it was too tired to run. I have lost two more friends, feel as I’m
the only sheep left in the enclosure and too tired to run. Heartache and
fun, we had it all in our adolescence. Then our way parted, but you never
forget a childhood friend.
Two years ago I was going to see them, a reunion of school friends going
back fifty years. In the end I didn’t go, knew we would talk a lot first then
fall silent. What we remembered was our friendship then and the past is
another country, as the poet says.
I knew the chasm of years could not be bridged, over meal and too much
wine. One of my friends sent me a photo of the party, a group of old men
I would have walked past in the street and not recognized any of them.
I put the photo up on the wall in my office, but soon took it down again.
Time is a cruel enemy I cry for them and me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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