The Stream
The Stream of Consciousness.
A laughing clown filled the heavenly screen, a grin full of malice.
Behind him bearded men were eating children, wine and blood
ran down their chests, they were having the time of their life.
Democracy is great they chanted: freedom to exploit the weak
and poor. They were friendly offered me a child’s soft arm and
thigh, But I shook my head and walked on I had to find my way
home. And there it was shining red on a hill in afternoon light.
The apartment block had no entrance rope hung from windows,
my flat was on the third floor. I tried to climb up it was vital for
me to get home, but half way up I lost the grip, too feeble,
I slid down and my hands burst into flames, I put my hands into
a bucket of water that turned into wine, which I coolly drank.
A fire engine hasted by I tried to hail it to borrow their ladder,
but they had no time to stop so many other fires breaking out.
I walked to the everlasting river, sat on a stone and listened to
Its universal language. Then I let go and became the river.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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African Bee
The African Bee.
Yellow flowers in a ring protected by olive trees
no one knows their name I have to ask a botanist
for their Latin name. The dale side here has many
stone walls, tiny if seen from the moon overgrown
now those small plots of land yielding nothing but
poverty and deep seated resentment. The flowers
are not lilies, I can see that, it will soon be Easter
and the little church will be full of women, while
most men will hang about outside, near the bar,
white and yellow butterfly flies unsteadily around
in the wind and, and bumblebees drink from deep
red poppies. A swarm of killer bees fly by, I do not
speak or move till they are gone. My brother in law
Nené who live in Kinshasa, Congo, tells me that
the bees there live, exclusively, on orchid dew and
they are big as sparrows and can sting an elephant
till it dreams of yesterday, maybe it isn’t true but
I would not like to b stung by them. Now that the ice
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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Where The Northwesterly Blows
Where the Northwesterly Blows (memory of a town)
In the small park with gloomy trees, near where the factories used to be,
was a bust of a man’s image on a plinth. I think it was made of bronze,
the head was brown when not striped white by seagull droppings.
Mother said he had been a Mesèn; she liked using odd words, desperately
trying to keep afloat in a world of tinned sardines in oil and mackerel in
tomato sauce. I took it to mean a rich man kind to working people and had
donated this sad little park surrounded by damp factory walls; a place where
the workers could sit and enjoy the sun. The park was only open Saturday
Afternoons and Sundays, one couldn’t have people sitting there during work
week. A child climbed over its fence and drowned in a tarn of green algae.
The park was eradicated, just as the grim factories were thirty years later.
Life was bleak in my town, one neon lit advert, on the night sky “Jesus Saves.”
Competing with the stars, and a persistent rumour that the man in the suit
shop wore ladies underwear.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Christmas At Sea
Once I was kicked by a mule, as I was remonstrating,
a dog interfered and bit my ankle. There is something
deeply embarrassing to lose arguments to animals.
Guayaquil, Colombia, I hadn´t gone ashore for fun but to
buy food stuff for the crew. Since it was a few days before
Christmas and even our Moslems crew liked something
extra. It is difficult to get into the festive mood when it is
hot and I had been bitten and kicked, Jesus was born in
a barn which is a good place to be a cold winter night as
animals exude good warmth. I marvel of the nativities of
Joseph, a finer man than me; a person unsung through
times. Chicken for Christmas, not pork, in every mess
hall there were a coloured trees, since the Islamists do not
drink there was peace on earth; I forgave the mule and
the bloody, yellow monster of a dog. And silently the old
tramper ploughed the sea on her way to Jamaica, where
the seaman´s priest would invite us Christians to sing
psalms and hand out little presents of socks and gloves
knitted by kind ladies back in Norway.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Broremann The Boy
The boy was eight years old and pretended to have one leg
shorter than the other, by walking with one foot in the gutter
and the other foot on the pavement. He tried to run that way
but it was difficult lost his balance and fell. A strange boy
often alone dreaming about what to do, he had told his mother
he wanted to be an actor and play many roles and be everything
at once. Either that or to an opera singer be, famous, traveling
around the world. His mother didn´t think much of his plans and
anyway this was his last day in this town tomorrow he was being
sent to farm, that had cows, horses, and sheep. He had no say in
the matter his mother was sick and had to go to a sanatorium
He didn´t mind it so much liked horses and could be a cowboy but
he had to go to school to and the children was sure to mob him for
talking city like. Down at the docks a big ship was birthing she came
all the way from Conakry in Africa. The boy decided to be a sailor,
and walked home to tell his mother.
Broremann is best translated as “little brother”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving
My aunt gave me a turkey to give to my brother who
lived in the neighbouring town, I cooked the fowl first
to stop it going bad and put it in a bag, went down to
the post office to send it, but the place had closed for
the day. Took the bus to my brother’s town, but when
arriving I had forgotten his address, asked the doorman
at a hotel, who new my brother, to show me the way,
only to find when we got there that I had left the bag
on the bus. Got lost trying to find the bus terminal,
I didn’t know brother’s phone number I also resented
the fact that aunt had given him the bird because he
was the oldest, leaving me with all the work, so I got
fed up and left; but I couldn’t get home as no bus was
going my way. Down at the docks there was a steamer
ready to sail for Djibouti, with a cargo of frozen turkey
for the presidential army, she needed a cook, so I sign
on, but did sent brother a cable telling him where his
turkey was. Too late, the bus driver, since no one had
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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Blowing In The Wind
Blowing in the Wind
Wild oats and thistles covered the track swiping at my legs
as a punishment for old sins I thought safely forgotten in
the misty dale that makes wars look romantic adventures
that separated men from boys where trespasses are buried
under flowers and manly never referred to unless you are
A soppy fool who betrays old soldiers’ secrets.
The cottage was still there but trees around it had grown so
big it could not be seen from the road; the door was easy to
open windows had layers of spiders’ webs as curtains made
the room shady in the noon heat. In intense silence the past
came thundering alive, so many grave not visited and tears
of those betrayed ran down my cheeks, a lake of clarity,
a mirror I couldn’t run away from I punched the stone wall,
bloody knuckles I had spilt much blood, never my own,
I savoured the pain, stood on an ancient table threw a rope
over a beam, when my dog barked wanted to come in from
the noon heat…At ease now I walked back to the road and
behind me a hangman’s noose gently swayed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The President I Nearly Met
Once, I nearly met a President
It was a very hot morning when we docked in port of Prince. Papa Doc was
in power then, the president of Haiti, a nice man who gave coins to the poor.
Onboard came the usual gang of uniformed official who wanted whisky and
cigarettes before any papers were signed. Amongst them Tonton Macute,
men in slacks, summer shirts concealing side arms, sunglasses worn day or
night; Papa Doc’s men looking after things. One of them offered to take me
ashore show where the best whore was, I declined have an aversion for guns.
It was a long hot night all portholes and doors closed, frantic people trying
to sneak onboard to get away from this sunlit Island. The pilot came at noon
to take us out, an intelligent man with eyes who had seen it all, he spoke
English, I asked him about Papa Doc. He paused and said: “our president is
a very nice man when he visits villages he has bags of coins whish he strew
on the road for the poor to pick up from the dust, and with desperate hearts
they are grateful for what he gives them.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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All Souls Day
All Souls Day
Suddenly a big hole opened up in the sea, the ship sank into it; the vessel
rests on the bottom where shiny star fish light up the dark before they are
swallowed by sharks.The captain on his bridge, cook in his galley, the first
engineer in the engine room, as it was dinner time when she sank, her crew
are in the mess room, dancing ghoulishly around as the sea gently sighs.
And sometimes the skeletal face of the deck boy peeks through a porthole
asks when the ship arrives in New York, a girlfriend waiting for him; there is
a moment of hilarity as dead sailors’ moves about free of man’s burden.
The cook rests in a in a large pot tells himself he must wake up, bake bread
and do the bloody the dishes as he tries to get his cigarette lighter to work.
Her captain bobs up and down trying to find his charts, maps of the oceans
currents and wonders why the radar isn’t working. The engineer is trying to
find out why the engine stalled. I knew them all, but dastardly left them in
Rio de Janeiro just because I met a girl called Maria.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Cook’s Battle
The ship -cook was tired it had been a long day, the ship was old
full of cockroaches, one had found its way in his bread dough and
when the captain cut a slice of bread it was there, a brown raisin;
the old man had been very angry. The cook’s trouble was roaches
they were everywhere. He had asked to have the galley fumigated
when the ship was in dry dock, but no it was far too expensive.
Every week he boiled a big pan of water and squirted into corners,
it helped a bit and he had buckets full, but soon they were back
encroaching his galley. Then there were mites in the flour which
he had to sift before baking bread, not his fault yet he had to take
the flack. He often worked till late evening to keep the galley clean
he had even painted it so on the surface it looked bright and nice.
He was losing the battle against insects he often felt he was losing
his mind as well, they appeared in his dreams strangulating him.
Time was hard not easy to get a job, still when his ship docked in
Bombay he was off and the crew could get someone else to insult.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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