End Of Line
End of the Line
Old man, yes, you who walk near the houses on the pavement
down the street using a cane, is there something wrong with
your hips? Hey! Old man when you see a group of youngsters
standing by the corner you feel fear, and if they make fun of
the way you walk you pretend not to hear only try to walk faster.
It didn’t used to be like this you looked the world in the eye as
you broad shouldered swaggered down the street of life, no one
dared to challenge you then; you didn’t know it was going to end
like this. Hey! Old man your life is behind you and your future is
the grave, and your walk often takes you to the cemetery where
you often go and read the names of people you used to know.
You live in pain- tell me way- most of the time, watch irrelevant
news TV, while drinking a little whisky. Every Saturday you go
the café and drink beer with other old men, only there are so few
of them now. Hey! Old man with a foot in the grave, in your dream
you are still virile and when you wake up you feel young until you
see the cane or your face in the unforgiving mirror. Yet you go on
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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Cascais Portugal
Cascais, Portugal.
First day of summer both winter and spring, full of rain; we are visiting her mother’s
resting place, a hole in a wall with a glass door that has a flimsy lock; easy to break in to
but who would want too? Her mother, born in Kinshasa, Congo, but upheaval forced
her to leave; now she rests in Cascais, Portugal far from her native land. The bible on
top of the coffin is full of tiny holes soon the book will be a pile of dust
While my wife pray I go for a walk, beautiful day and Cascais has a lovely bay. There are
sailboats and a few yachts in the bay one of them belongs to Prince Albert of Monaco,
he likes Portugal, the local paper enthuses. Indeed, aren’t we lucky? She joins me, says
“I don’t like boats and I don’t like the sea, my first husband took me on a sailing trip in
lake Lugarno, I was so sick they had to set me ashore.” We turn our back to the bay,
her mother and walk back to the car.
I remember a winter night in the North Atlantic Ocean, giant waves came crashing on
deck taking the railing and lifeboats away. Three ships sank that night with irrelevant
cargo onboard. No survivors. “Yes dear, the sea is a monster if it doesn’t takes your
body it takes your soul.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The People We Don't Want To Know
From pay check to pay check many working class people have two jobs,
then it all dries up and there is no work and manual labourers are
called work shy…. I knew a woman with three jobs she was tired coming
home, yet boiled potatoes and fried fish for her children before falling
asleep, coughing a lot. She had tuberculosis and sent to a sanatorium,
and the children sent to foster homes. Her illness caused by unhygienic
home, people from the social services said. No one asked why a woman
should hold down three jobs to fed her children and no one said she was
a “deserving” poor whatever this word means. This inequity will go on till
we understand poverty is not a choice but a mishap of birth, few escape,
those who do will always carry the dishonour, the mark of Cain, by being
more hateful of poverty and branding the poor lazy. As the average actor
who got a role in a film that made him famed, his hate his own class, poor
himself once, reveals his fear of slipping back to poverty again; he harms
his flesh and blood in an attempt to get rid of his own stench of privation.
But the Haves can smell an imposter, but they do like money so perhaps
his daughter will make it to the The People We Don't Want To Knowball.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Wentertainment
Entertainment
Where I grew up the landscape was flat, the sky wide
and Christianity, demanding. The nearest village didn’t
have a cinema but sometimes a travelling preacher
came along and the meeting hall was full.
They were good the old preachers, spoke about sin,
forgiveness and the saving of the soul. Many cried
came up to the podium spoke of their many sins and
was forgiven, many came it was a good meeting.
Our neighbour was there being saved, the farmer
told me that he was always saved but it didn’t last
long, he tended to look embarrassed for a few days,
then he was back being his old sinful self.
The farmer’s wife, Alice, stirred restless in her seat,
her eyes shone she wanted to get up there and
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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Abike Memory
A Memory.
I once was an errand boy and had a big bike that had no gears and
our town was hilly. In front of the bike there was a steel mesh box
to put stuff in…sometimes when a doctor needed three chairs for
his waiting room it was all loaded up and I could hardly see where
I was going. But most of the time delivered things like typewriters
or ash trays; or delivering letters to clients, the last part made me
feel rather important as I was debt collector and taking the money
to the bank. Banks back then had a churchly interior and I had to
take my cap off before entering; a somber place never saw anyone
smile. When not on call I worked in the office putting papers in
folders in alphabetical orders, fetch cakes and coffee for the staff.
I was offered a position as a junior clerk, but the thought of working
in an office for the rest of my life was too much, mother said I had
lost an golden opportunity, but she was thinking of what she could
tell her sister: " my son works in an office". As my aunt's son was
a welder and wore overall. It is a long time ago back in the days
I was free to make a choice. Right or wrong I shall not know perhaps
I could have ended up as a company director that would have made
mother very proud.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Final Chapter
The Final.
Shivering I got up from my ice sheet bed and walked into night streets.
Pot holed roads and uneven pavements, a systematic ruin to save tax
payers money which is easy in a poor, powerless neigbhourhood.
What happened to lust? The pleasure and awe running through veins
filling my body with life. And then around a corner they came, women
I had loved, old now, empty breasts, thin legs, flapping vaginas and
pubic hair brittle as Fidel Castro’s beard. They didn’t see my but ran
to a bronze statue of my youth standing proudly erect on a pedestal.
I was full of rage and consumed by jealousy. How dare they ignore me?
How dare my youth be so boastful? I collected smeared napkins and
condoms, tried to set fire to the statue, that was starring down at me
with a giant erection and deep contempt. It was no good the fire
didn’t melt the copper. God, let me have just one more erection and
an ejaculation that will forever smother lingering lust. The women
had boarded a diesel stinking bus, they were going to the woods,
pick magic mushroom and dance in the glade. Overflowing bins,
cat piss and broken supermarkets trolleys. From the east a few rays
of sunlight came and made the city decay beautiful. What’s next old man,
what’s next?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Friendship
The Friendship
Sven and I were best friends sailed on the same ship together.
he as a third officer and I as a cook. We were both interested
in reading, cinema and politics, and we liked go dancing when
our ship docked. One night in Kingston, Jamaica, we met two
girls at a beach cafe, I liked my girl there was an easy repartee
between us and we laughed a lot. Back onboard Sven said my
the girl was not suitable for me, I smiled, thought it a joke.
Next day was Sunday Sven went ashore after breakfast, going
to the beach, he said, I had to stay onboard and cook dinner.
He came back in the evening, when I was ready to go ashore
and meet my new girlfriend; Sven said he was very tired and
wanted to stay onboard for the night. When I met my girl at
the cafe, she appeared startled looked around and behind me
but said nothing; told she had been to the beach all day and
was quite exhausted, the easy talk between us was gone and
the silence was awkward, so I wordlessly just got up and left.
Back onboard, Sven sat in the mess-hall drinking coffee and
reading, he looked up said halloo but continued to read;
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Phobia
Phobia
Once in Paris, I was going to a venue reading poetry, the hotelier told me to take
the subway as it was easy. After being a fender for busy people I found my train
and suffocated. First stop, I ran off and found myself at a strange part of the city,
sweating and shaking like d drunk who had been on a bender for a fortnight.
Phobia! I didn´t even know I had one, my pipe dream of being a u-boat captain
had sunk in a hole of terror. My instinct, when lost in a strange place, is to find
the nearest tavern/bars, there are many taverns in Paris it was easy to find one.
I had Pernod, not that I like this drink, but after all I was in France; to blend in
I wore a black beret given to me by a relative of my wife who runs a hat factory
in Lyon, and I had had garlic bread for breakfast. But was unable to lift the glass,
my left hand wouldn´t let me, the right hand blankly refused and pretended to
be lame. Finally hiding, behind the Guardian- an English newspaper for people
who see themselves as liberal socialists-. I gulped down the horrid drink. It did
wonders. So I ordered a whisky, I was a hero, nothing could scare me
as I walked bravely out into busy streets full of people who looked at me as if they
had not seen a beret before, and looked for a taxi.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Everyday Life And Chocolate
Everyday life and Chocolate.
A sweet shop in the middle of nowhere, I had bought a box of chocolate,
but had no money, the owner took my sack of hay given to me by a farmer
to make a mattress, as payment. Now I sleep on top of a big kitchen table
for fear of rats. When I get up at night to drink water, I can hear them
hissing under the floor board. The candy man’s daughter is dying, she has
always been in love with her image and can’t bear the thought of parting.
from her mirror. Last night I fell off the kitchen table, dreamed I was back
at sea and my ship was pitching and rolling, bet it gave the rats a fright.
The phone rang it was my mother, couldn’t hear what she said, bad line
between heaven and earth. Went to the candy man’s daughter’s funeral
the casket was decorated with colourful sweets and expensive chocolate,
the sermon was light hearted the priest looked as he was on a high. I don’t
eat chocolate anymore, but live on raw carrots. So slim you are fat people
tell me; my diet is carrots I say and the rush to the green grocer to buy some,
but they continue to eat sweets. Things are looking up the farmer gave me
another sack of hay and a rat catching terrier, and every morning it puts
the night’s catch on the kitchen table.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Amazement
The Amazement
The track I walked, in the thorny landscape, was full of loose
stones that kept coming up from ground trying to trip me up,
where the track narrowed amongst unkempt trees, boughs
tried to push me over, and in the undergrowth I heard snarls
of animals too vicious and hideous too appear in the flesh.
Overcast day and the wind that blew had ice on its breaths,
I shivered alone in the enmity of a landscape gone feral.
But I staggered on unwilling to give into phobias and fear,
suddenly stones went subversive and the path was soft as
a carpet, unseen animals disappeared and trees welcomed
me with fluttering leaves; even a love hungry zephyr
whispered sweet words. In a shimmering glade- smooth as
a rich man’s lawn- a plum tree, full of juicy fruit, I picked and
ate some; they tasted of magic and sweet marvel.
Dizzy with pleasure I sat on a stone, formed by ten million
years of rain, like a throne, saw sirens dance to Pan’s flute and
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