Blank Page
Blank Page
This new blank page, a word processor page, I cannot touch. I ought to leave it this
way, just look at it and dream of what I could have written on it. If I delet the words
I have written now, it will be blank again, no history, no crumbled up sheet of paper
in the wastebasket. For now it is too late but I might erase it when I come to an end.
My wife was in Johannesburg once for surgery, being born in Congo but light skinned
and travelling on a Portuguese passport, she boarded a bus for the blacks.
Great consternation, she was told by police to go on the white only bus since she
was Portuguese. Racism and anti Semitism are so stupid, it makes no sense, one race
thinks it is superior to others. Now it is the Moslems who are feeling the surge
of ignorance. We want them to be more like us and not Insist of doing their own things.
In Israel, for instance the European Jews feel vastly superior to Arab Jews, This in a state
that is an artificial construct. The culture of Europe in the Middle East. We know Israel,
as it exist today must come to an end. So there I said it, this white virtual sheet has been
befouled by an opinion no one wants to know about. So what do I do know? Erase this
page so it is blank again and I can write about the moon?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Boyhood
Boyhood Remembered
Mother and her sister played poker when I came out of the bedroom looking
for my trousers, but mother had just lost them to Aunt Gabriella who refused
to give them back. I sat by the coal fire and warmed my knees; winter with frost
roses on windows. Without long trousers I could not go to school, the idea of this
pleased me, I began reading a Robin Hood book. I didn’t care so much for him,
he was in love with a girl, but I liked the other ones in his gang. “Here, ” mother
said, “I have won back your trousers, your shoes as well; go to school now.” I was
going to take the bike out of the shed, but a monster rat sat there.
” Mother” I yelled, “There is a big rat in the shad it is eating the tires off my bike.”
Mother dropped the cat out of the window, from our third floor flat, just caught it.
“Put the cat in the shed, ” walk to school, it is good for you biking makes you lazy.”
My sister came with a crate of beer she had bought at the supermarket, ” you are
just like little girl frighten by a tiny rat, ” she said, took the bike out, put the dazed
cat on top of the crate and walked in. I was one hour late for school, but there was
no use telling the teacher why, he would only say I was telling tales as usual.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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april & Easter
April & Easter
Easter and April go together especially on a sunny day. The story of Jesus’ death
and resurrection is such a wonderful story and fits well where I walk amongst
olive and almond trees. I enjoy the part when they found the grotto bare, only his
shroud is there it ought to have been blood stained his body had not yet been
oiled and perfumed. James, Jesus’ brother who was going to take over the carpentry,
had warned his older brother not to go too far with the elders, not go around
saying he was god’s son when everybody knew his father Joseph was a carpenter.
Adultery was a stoning offence in those days, and also, it made Maria blush with
embarrassment; but she loved Jesus, the first born followed him around and saw
to it that he had a bath and a clean burnoose. Where I grew up the sky was vast
in April and once I saw a man, in a white suit, disappearing as he walked along
a long, empty road. My father had once been a seafarer and had bought a white
suit in Panama, but why was he walking away from me? I cycled along the road
to catch up with the man in white. Was it my father or Jesus I had hoped to see?
The sun hangs low now it is getting colder and the shadow of the carob tree,
where I often sit unseen and dream, is loosening its spell on me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Storm
A big storm is hitting the eastern seaboard of North America,
it has just hit Cuba and other little island; fifty people killed,
but we didn´t get an intensive coverage as we get now.
By all means it is an immense storm and no doubt America feels
it doesn´t deserve this and there is no one to drones to attack
for this onslaught on Americas’ soil. Yes, we can build walls we
can built fortresses in the hope of being safe from the world,
but in the eye of a storm by nature or a storm caused by lack of
justice and freedom, the storm will be equally furious those
storms will, if we are lucky, clean our corrupt social system,
we call democracy- a practice that gives the right of the rich to
exploit the poor and obscenely try to make the neediest enjoy
slavery of being consumers, where going to the mall is highlight
of the week… Meanwhile the storm blows and if two tramps would
be killed or two seamen drown, every TV channel in the world will
record their demise and there will be a charity in their name;
“we shall not forget their suffering.” But as water retreats and
hamburger joints opens- The past, in our world, has no memory,
it is about mustard or ketchup; and it is quite easy really,
the red little bag is tomato ketchup and the yellow bag is mustard.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Whales
Whales.
What can I say about whales? I’ve seen them blow geysers of hot water
on the coast of Canada and Norway. Great innocent beings with small
brains living in peace, but for man. So much meat and fat; have you ever
tasted whale meat, it is dark and tender but it has to be soaked overnight
in vinegar or it will taste like cod liver oil. In the old days its fat made liquid
was good to lit lamps. We have got electricity now, so if you want a steak
kill a cow, they are plentiful, mind they are innocent too, graze and do not
know they are targeted to end up as burgers. The whales have a complex
language marine biologists say I don’t think it is hard at all, they are saying
in surprisingly feminine voice … where are you? I’m here two miles away
from you and watch out for boats, with propellers”. “Ok, thank you”
Sven Foyn, the whale murderer, nearly hunted them to extinction with his
exploding harpoon gun, but thanks to a few nature lovers this cruel practice
ended… Today there are many whales in the ocean sooner or later someone
will say there are too many of them, we have to cull them and make a little
money on the side. And unseen by us, but known by whales, a dark hulled
ship with a captain Ahab onboard is still hunting for an illusory white whale.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Exile
The Exile.
You can’t leave this town for the next six years, the magistrate had said.
Rang my house, no one there, I wanted someone to send for my dog so
I had good company in my exile; hoped my neighbour fed the cur and
didn’t put it down. I could not drive my car since I didn’t have the right
license, and could not obtain one since I didn’t had the right documents.
The car stands there rusting away when I don’t sit in it pretending to
drive, or sleep in it when I’m too tired to walk up to the sixth floor, when
the lift has broken down or used it as a toilet. A man, in facebook, said
he was in New Orleans, very well for him, but what made him tell me this,
did he try to impress me? I, who live in a town where I can see the sea,
from my window and need not live in fear of bursting levies. I’m going for
a walk, a ghost alive, on the way to the bus terminal, people move aside-
a ship ploughing the water. I’ll board a bus and see where it takes me.
The bus I took yesterday only drove around the suburbia, many houses up
for sale, but I wasn’t going to buy any of them. Can’t think of anything more
forlorn than a vacant house I hear echo of crying and distressed voice.
It is the bank’s castle now. My cottage is empty too, outside sits a dog,
waits for me to come home.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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a village in Iberia
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Village
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Palm Sunday
Palm Sunday (Easter Sunday)
End of time splashes through yellow plastic tubes to meet eternity that ends
in a sand box. Shriek! Let us do it again. And we awoke as bible words and
slogans rained from an amused sky. I saw the four horse men on mules,
ride slowly through an abject cityscape to where air was clear and grass for
the animals. The weather is always good when not punctuated by TV weather
forecast entertainment. We have fortressed our home to avoid receiving or
hear other voices. But strange men in black, came and showed me a house in
lane, where Barbara Streisand lived in a tent at the back, did her exercises
seven o’clock sharp, every day. Twenty eight people circled my house, two
of them came said they were termite inspectors, but they were more
interested in the kennel where my poodle Hamas lived. Next day the twenty
eight had disappeared and my dog lies dead on the steps of the shed I use,
when sending secret messages to people who believe in everything just to
be on the safe side. Barbara Streisand joined us, dressed in a Salvation Army
uniform, urged me to buy the house, she promised me a new dog, I declined,
jumped on a passing bus. The driver wore a laundry starched, burnoose and
past us flew twinkling, vibrant bushes; green tutus looking for Margot Fonteyn.
It was Palm Sunday and not a good day to talk about defensive Jihad.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Reluctant Traveler
Reluctant traveler
Morning driving through the vast plateau of Spain, cowboys in their sheep skin coats
are ready to ride out to Inspect the heard, It is cold the horses are rearing to gallop.
On a hillock the outline of a big black bull, underneath is written “Sandman’s sherry.”
The sign is held by wires and looks like a malapropos in morning light. Cattle’s grazing
did they spend the night standing up resting, listening out for wolves or other
predatory animals? The driver tells us we are going to stop in a town too irrelevant to
remember. The breakfast is an insult I ask for fried eggs and bacon by the time they
are ready the coach is ready to leave. Hasty breakfast but I managed to have a pee.
A flask of rum and coke, I have made some notes, taken a few picture, I drink fall
asleep, when I wake up we are in France and a new morning has arrived. I have never
been to France before, only at airports passing trough, this is a dreary little border
town and it surprise me that their inhabitances have not fled. The café is lousy, stale
bread with jam. I get into an argument with the rude staff, my wife comes and saves
the day. I Paris we are met by a Jewish gentleman who wants me to read my poems,
In defense of Palestine, In Norwegian and I’m the only Scandinavian in the room. I do
the readings, hate Paris, and take the first bus back home to Portugal.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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