winter Algarve
Winter Algarve.
The hills in the vale are stony and grey except where
they have made a road up to a new house that looks
shiny and bright for now, but will in time when paint
fades look as it belongs. “That old house you see up
there was built in 2009, ” a tourist guide will say.
The Northerly flies low and cold today olive trees
look silvery as big gorillas standing still contemplating
a sky that has white, billowing clouds sailing across;
a regatta were no one drowns and the winner turns
into a miasma and never seen again
The stones on the old wall look like grey skulls with
holes in like another war mass grave found in Poland.
Everything dies and lives, the grass is green and tiny
Flowers grow out of weed, paradise for wooly backs,
but not for those- the human ones- from St. Helens.
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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October’s Pretence.
Rain, nature is greening, but it’s a false spring; December will
pale the land into submission. Do not write poetry till February,
when almond trees blossom and strew petals about in protest
thinking winter takes the season of its sinister drama too far.
Last winter snow fell, a wonder land; people said they had not
seen snow for forty seven years. The stream is xanthous I think
of China’s main river where dolphins, not seen for years, swim
in cloudy water. What can’t be seen cannot be caught by man.
Dawn, on the track a boar, sniffed the air and grunted; a hairy,
pig in need of a pair of glasses. I moved and it disappeared into
the brushwood. On nature walks I used to take a camera, but
wild animals hate having their photo taken and avoided my
intrusive lens I was left with taking photos of trees, weeds and
evergreen bushes. My lazy dreaminess has paid off I have had
a good life no one ever expected anything glorious of me, and
left me in peace. If you look for me I will be on a bus trying to
find the fabulous castle; I once saw when I could see the future.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Outcast 2
Outcast
Man with the cloven foot walks through the night, harsh and frustrated,
he was the result when a farmhand had intercourse with a cow... and
when cow a cold February day gave birth on a snowy field, people fled in
distress; the devil has been reborn they screamed and ran away.
The father of this obscenity hung from the rafter in the barn and bitterly
thought it had all come to this because his wife slept with bloomers on.
The child licked by warm cow tongues survived behind a hollow of a stone
and farmers wondered why his cattle gave so little milk.
Cloven foot, how could he hide from peoples fear and utter disgust other
than being evil and cursing mankind, he who had done nothing but being
a victim of a farmer hands unbecoming lust. Priests gave him the name
Satan, although he was never been baptized.
He survived wears a built up shoe to hide his defect, works in finance,
spreads mayhem and poverty. “Love me he says, and I will bring peace
but you must become vegetarians because i will not allow you to turn
my flesh and blood into hamburgers or Sunday roast.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Promenade
Another day Sunday at the seaside resort luckily there were
no carousels, few kids and those who were there behaved
textbook like, with their grandparents loyally eating ice cream
and drinking soda pops; since they were given everything they
wanted, there were few tantrums.
The latest trend now (for women) is to wear long, lose fitting
flowering dresses and my wife said she still had dresses like that
going back forty years; she will wear one of them tomorrow.
Grand yachts at the marina I counted three “Aston Martins”
wondered if Prince Charles was around. Yet on the promenade
I saw mostly pensioners who had been saving for a year to have
this one vacation. I was the only one who murmured darkly if
the rich had paid their taxes; but what do you expect of a man
who wants to bring back the guillotine.
Time has mellowed me the weather was summery I wore blazer
and looked posh (that´s what she said) and I did my best to keep
my stomach in. This is an enchanting time we tried not to think
of tomorrows as we sat on a bench eating ice-cream yogurt
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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Land Of Honey And Milk
Land of Milk & Honey.
The president has banned the verb “work, ” there are no job seekers
or unemployed people, but those who administrate the state are on
duty. Since all is mechanized, digitalized and robotozied there is little
need for citizens to do anything, but receive a monthly card to spend
on food, clothes and other things, and they will be well enumerated.
At last the masses have been set free from the toil of labour.
They can sleep as long as they want, walk in the park or pursue sport,
meet in the evening and read poetry, with the understanding “work”
is not mentioned, ‘cause the state know some poets are insubordinate
and will try to sneak in “work” by calling it something else. If the state
censor find out the writer will be banned from all public gatherings and
not being able to buy yogurt till he repents and writes nice things about
the beautiful colour of plastic flowers, made by a robot called Rose.
It has taken mankind thousands of years to reach this stage of maturity,
and they will look up to the clear blue sky and say: “Truly this is Utopia.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Blue Plant
The Blue Plant
In a clearing in the woods there is a blue plant
that is illuminated from the inside and shines
long after dark, but if you stop and stare its
four petals curl up, light is switched off and it
looks another way; this because it lives in fear
of being recognized by a passing botanist and
classified as a minor little weed not worth
bothering about.
As I'm only a sailor who lost his sextant and
ended up in a wrong vale and not Singapore
which was my intention, I have its confidence
So I asked: 'what if the botanist finds you
the most beautiful flower he has ever seen,
then you will be famous, poets will go all
tearful and lyrical about you and you'll appear
in illustrated books.'
The blue flower's light flickered on and off it
was clearly in distress petals in a flutter and
shakily it said: 'I fear fame it's an awesome
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Ten Euro Note
Ten Euro Note
The old road into town is only used by walkers
now, weird people, who would look out of place
anywhere else and Marian Hyde, who writes
about alternative lifestyles, in the Guardian.
I had found a wallet with a twenty euro note,
photos of a posing nude woman, it belonged to
someone named Carol. I asked around, they all
knew her, a pro who often walked this way.
A handmade and of real leather and on and
impulse I added a ten euro note and wondered
if when I caught up with her she would notice,
or was my motive more self serving?
I met up with Carol at a road side pub gave her
the purse, she opened it counted the money,
said nothing, but she was talking to a footballer
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As A Day Passes
As The Days Passes
The cemetery on the hill, facing the blue bay, looks inviting in spring sun.
A burial procession is coming up the road, the last one before lunch,
the priest has folded his hands and think of food. As soon as the coffin is
lowered, three the gravediggers go to work.
Kisses, hugs, tears and sober handshakes, the group of mourners break
up, the bereaved needs to eat too. We are because my wife’s mother is
in a hole in the wall with glass door, she came to change the cloth that
covers the coffin, but has forgotten the key.
I think of my mother, she has been dead a long time, memories of her
last years are bleached bones in the human wasteland I have a picture
of her when she was young and can now see, she a woman too, I cherish
my memories of that time. She had a difficult life, enough said.
Why do people drink? I drink to ease the yoke of my own mortality and
the whispering voice that mocks me. After a bottle of wine the evening
floats by, like a pink cloud on the sky, the scornful voice tires itself out
and falls silent, and softly now life is beautiful and full of dreams.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Thw Musical Lady
The Musical Lady
I knew of a pavement café where tables and chairs were painted
in different colours, this to lend ambience in an otherwise dreary
street. A young lady, a student at the music conservatorium, came
here for lunch and always insisted on sitting on the same chair,
a rosa one; she was pretty in stern way, long black dress, flat shoes,
plain long hair and big glasses, waiters were happy to oblige her.
This caused jalousie amongst other chairs that wanted her to sit on
them too. In the night they ganged up on the rosa one, upended it
and scratched badly. The owner thought it was the work of vandals,
put the damage chair in the store room, but when the musical lady
came she insisted to sit on her chair damaged or not. Other seats
felt bad realizing it was not the rosa’s fault but the idiosyncrasy of
the artist, so in the night the spruced up the rosa till it looked as new.
But now the pianist didn’t want it, not the same as before, she said
and sat on a yellow chair. Feeling a miffed the gleaming new looking
seat said to itself: “No big shake she had a narrow, cold bum anyway.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Time For Clearance
Time for Clearance
I was in Norway once, the paradise of social democracy,
I saw many beggars, mostly Roma people who
the inhabitant wanted to get rid of or send them out of
town in the woods where they were not seen. If you are
beggar you got to beg where the people are, foxes and
sheep and have nothing to give. There is a strong sense
of nationalism in Norway. The police did not hesitate to
round up Jews and send them to concentration, and when
the war was over most of the police officers continued in
their work upholding the law. Norway as a nation has never
looked at itself and taking tally of the nation´s behavior
during war years, instead it is lauding the few who resisted
the Nazi occupation and made them into icons. They shot
Quisling but it didn´t stop what made a quisling possible.
Still has not done so. Oil made Norway rich, yet there
is poverty amongst the low paid and incomers for whom
there is little charity. The dark side of Scandinavia- violence, -
hate against people who are different from them… those
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