Celebrity Status

The thirst for Celebrity Status.

Is there a doctor in the house, no it’s only me and I’m chef and I have
burned my hand frying fish. Once I was asked by a stewardess if I was
a doctor, one of her charges had taken ill. I was flattered and took my
ladle and pots out. What is his profession, I asked, he is an historian,
I made him an ancient omelet; the historian recovered. In Milan a call
to the audience: Is there a tenor in the house, our tenor has expired,
no one put a hand up; I did and killed the Figaro drivel once and for all.
Once train conductor let me wave a green flag and blow the whistle,
the train left without me, which was a pain, my wife and suit cases were
onboard. It was a slow train to Porto, took a taxi to the next station and
boarded the train as my wife left having had enough of my quest for
recognition. It is all about fame if you lack it you are fucked, reduced
to writing poetry no one reads in humble internet sites, in the hope of
reaching a reader who is as lonely as you are.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Dissonance Of Images

The dissonance of Images

Where is Haiti again? Or for that matter Chile? Both nations were on
the news only a few days ago. Earthquakes and tsunamis, was it not?
Folks’ been knocking on my door wanting money to help people of
Madeira, which is nearer home so we know it is a tourist island. Ebb
and flow of tragedies, soon forgotten. Now we have vivid flicks from
an exploding volcano on Iceland, a small village has been evacuated in
case snow turns into water and drown them all. Iceland has ponies,
that produce manure, which is good for the roses. There are no trees
on the isle, and few dogs, thus it’s possible to walk in its capital without
stepping on dog turd. Not that this fable will want me to go live there.
So much news, the radio, TV, and now, on your mobile phone as well.
The dissonance of images lose all meaning, we hear and see no evil;
until black smoke rises from behind the mountain and a voice screams:
“Do you want total war? ” Heaven help us if the echo’s answer is: ”Yes! ”

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Letter To A Young Poet Revised

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 pass time it doesn’t
change anything, no one reads it, other than cranky people. Should
a poet writes something nationalistic that resonance with, a nation’s
pride, like: “my country is the best in the world.” He will get a medal.

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 common man a poet is regarded as a figure of
fun who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make
sense of a world he doesn’t understand. As my father said, when my first
poem was published: “How much did they pay you? ” If my words have
not scared you off, you’re a poet. The only tool you’ll need is honesty.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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In The Eye Of The Beholder

I hide from lives storm in a dale of incognito, gone is my name,
my gravestone will be free of a name and time of casting anchor.
Write I was a seaman cast ashore by a storm and could not return,
walking on the shore listen to the siren’s call and fond silence.
And perhaps a man who has lost everything in life is walking his
dog, picks up a shell and listen to eternities soothing drone.
And the dog which soul is transient and wander from generation
to the next will wag its tail in tender memory of your life.
Yet forever to its present owner which it knows is mortal and will
end up as a memory by Canis familiars not yet to be born.
But as long as dogs, that have thrown in their lot with man, roam
and survive, we shall be there as a testament to eternity.
When you look into a dog’s eyes you’ll see a mirror and another
mirror and you will see the birth of humanity and kindness.
You will come to realise the only anchor you need is love of life,
and respect for all living creature on our little blue planet.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Landscapes

Landscapes

The landscape I walk, used to be guarded by stone hedges; infinite
supply of stones this soil yields if not much else. Nature has taken
back what man did, the landscape is lush of weed, and bent trees.
I’m sliding into silence, but if I listen I can hear Spanish bluebells
peal in a mild breeze that also carries a whisper of a Nordic lullaby,
Last year a Canadian couple walked with me, their ancestors came
from around here. We stopped outside a ruin and they went silent,
cried. An ancient memory stirred they knew this place. Where their
tears had fertilized the ground, is, this year, full of wild flowers.
No, they are not returning, Canadians now and proud of that too.
I sit on a stone, not by the river of Babylon, and see how the brook,
free from icy shackles elatedly run, will not heed words of caution.
I have made boats of bark, and sail of green leaves, see them hasten
towards the North Sea. The brook is no more, indifference has seen
to that, but the landscape of my childhood is clear as a stream.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Evening In Paradise

Evening in the village it is about nine o'clock nothing on TV except
men in nice suits and cuff links talking about the economy, they all
are experts yet disagree about everything banging hands on table,
getting red faced and angry, so I switched off. A motorbike is making
its unsteady progress through the village, Joao home from the bar,
dogs don't bark, know the sound it is only when he is trying to get
off and fall they bark a little, angry voices, and then utter stillness.
I stroll through the village only street every window is shuttered not
letting out light it is like they think they have to pay extra if it does.
I walk down to the main road and hope anything would come to pass
enveloped as I'm by tediousness. A car drives past I spend minutes,
wondering where it is going. Back home I switch the TV back on,
a drone attack an important terrorist has been killed, as have eleven
other mostly children, collateral damage, but we fight a global war.
I wished for and found my Paradise on earth and it is bloody boring.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Lucky Break

The young Russian, who had ended up on the shores of Algarve,
was drunk, poor and miserable. He offered people to help unload
trolleys into cars, few wanted him to do so as he was a big man
and looked threatening. Cold shoulders of contempt, yes he did
noticed it ok and every arrow of rejection found its mark.
He approached me I gave him enough money to buy a litre of
wine. A litre of wine would bring some relief he would be able to
sleep for a few hours, but knew he would wake up at dawn, feel
wretched and ashamed full of hopelessness and thinking how to
escape this misery that only drink could assuage for a few hours.
Once I was drunk, skint and far from home, I went into a church
for warmth, found a big money note on the floor I put it in
the collection box and cursed. Hell it I could not take the note
back it would look like a theft. I don’t know what I feared the most
stealing or being caught stealing. The day after I got a job, no it
didn’t make me religious, but it made me appreciate the element
of luck in life.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Alone At The Seaside

Sunday, October sunlight, I´m at the marina admiring
a boat made of wood, hull, deck and the bridge; I was
dreaming of mystical islands in the Pacific. An elderly
man near me spoke, said it was his ship, it had been
a fishing vessel…Asked if I wanted to come onboard
and have a look…Yes thank you. Everything onboard
was spick& span, but noticed the freezer in the pantry
took too much space. The cargo hold of his vessel was
converted a salon, but why all those black silk pillows,
on sofas and chairs? Thought it sinister. The man was
standing too near me taking up my pace and breathing
my air. Back on deck he invited me for an afternoon trip,
but told him I had to go home for my tea. Driving home
I thought of the freezer again, perhaps he wanted to lure
to the open sea throttle me with one of the black pillows
cut me into pieces and put each part in nice plastic bags with
name tags on, say, left leg, shoulder bone, thigh and foot.
use them as bait when he went shark fishing. Once again
my hunch had saved my life.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Disgrace There Is No Escape

Disgrace, there is no Escape.

There was this Norwegian, a gifted violinist he had won prizes in Moscow
and Warsaw, His debut was held in Oslo community hall, yes, the same
place the Nobel committee glad hands peace prizes to the mostly unworthy.
He played an Edward Grieg piece. Everything went well the public gasped
at his ability, then an accident, his trousers fell down, he wore pink lady
knickers. A shocked silence, then a titter, but soon laughter rolled around
the hall. The unlucky fiddler stopped playing couldn’t understand way
the audience laughed, till he looked down, saw his trousers rest on his shoes.
He tried to pull up his pants, lost his violin, stumbled and fell. The laughter
was merciless and never ending. He fled the country as a second cook on
ship bound for Argentina. There he got a job as a cowhand on a ranch in
the deepest pampas and grew a beard. Two years later thinking all was
behind him a newcomer came to the ranch, looked at the violinist and said:
” aren’t you the bloke who lost his trousers? ”

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Secret Door

The Mystery

Nadia, gentle zephyr of remembrance, where are you now?
In my mother’s flat there were three doors, the first door,
with an old fashion copper handle, often slammed in anger.
The second door into mother’s bed room was never closed,
but covered with a dark curtain. A small flat I slept on a sofa
in the living room.

There was a third door, from her bedroom into the kitchen.
Sometimes when mother was out, I tried to open it but it was
always locked. There were nights when I wasn’t sure if awake
or not, the locked door opened as a sigh of ancient dreams.
Dawn, I heard the faint sound again, but I was too terrified to
know the truth of what I wasn’t sure of

Morning, mother got up boiled water poured it into a bowl so
I could wash my face. Breakfast, slices of yesterday’s loaf with
strawberry jam and milky coffee. I wanted to know of the sighs
in the night, but sensed it was forbidden to ask.

[...] Read more

poem by Oskar Hansen
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