It Is In The Showing
It’s in the Showing
In poetry one is not to tell but to show, so I’m not going to say
anything, not tell I live in van Gogh nature, and I know of field
where a million burgundy poppies vie for attention, as a beauty
show where every girl looks the same and you hope a girl will
come with thunderous thighs and a generous bum just to break
the ennui of perfect plastic beauty; why should I tell you that
when you can come and see by yourself. I also know, but will ~
not tell you, by end of May it will all be gone, straws will be ~
pale and dry, shriek in pain when trod on. That is why I have
a cistern and collect every dropp of water that falls on my roof.
You can come and see for yourself, lift up the cistern lid look
down and the tiny fishes that swims there will think you are
angles. I’m their God, I have told them so, sometimes I shout
down flick a lighter, just to make their faith unfaltering. I’m not
sure if it works anymore last year, when the cistern was full,
I bent down to test the water, fell in and screamed for help.
A wise silver bellied fish may have said: “If he’s God why did
he scream for help? Anyway he needs us more than we need
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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What The Poet Wrote
What the Poet Wrote
(Birth over an open grave)
A poet wrote: ”Mothers give birth over an open grave. I thought it was harsh, most
children live long after their mothers die. A young man driving behind me was edgy
wanted to overtake thought I was driving too slow. I kept as far to the right as I could,
he saw his chance, but he was not quick enough, front collision. He wasn’t wearing
seat belt, died on the bonnet of his car. So much blood, dark red and sweet, but his
eyes were open and they saw beyond to a place I have never been. His mother,
a widow, collapsed when the coffin was lowered into a an unfeeling ground, she had
given birth over an open grave. I see a field lit by millions of candles in rows a man
walks among them and ever so often snuffs out light with his thumb and index finger.
But behind him new light appear, sometimes he turn go back and snuffs the new
lights out, mothers who have given birth over an open grave. He is now heading for
the part of the field where the candles have burnt out, only the wick flickers, quickly
he snuffs them out, but misses some, of people who live too long, those who death
has cruelly missed. There is no light on my terrace, a car passes by and plants casts
shadows on the wall, they have no colours. I’m past caring; tomorrow will come
whether I’m there or not, mother will never know if she gave birth to an open grave.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sky Reflection
Quiet sky reflection
The sky over Europe is silent, but there is fear in the air, few lemons no oranges
and no mangos for starters. When planes do not pollute the sky we starve.
I remember a time when what we ate followed seasons plenty of fruit in the fall
of which we made jam. But we did have plenty of turnips. At Christmas, we killed
a pig and a ship docked with festive oranges and bananas. Millions of people are
stranded on foreign shores desperate to get home, planes are to refined to pass
a bit of volcanic ash. (And, it is called progress) a question remains why did they
leave in the first place? why are they so desperate to get back to the rainy place
they left? Mind, many didn’t want to go, but holidaying is a must, a human right.
Shoulder to shoulder with fellow travelers, suffer the indignity of being treated
as cattle at airports and made to like it. To be met with distain behind skilled at
at some dreadful hotel and be forced to eat when it suits the staff. You are not
a person, but a tourist good for the economy of, say, Spain. It worries me this
interconnected world a strike and a bit of ash and we have no potatoes, the most
stable of food. We must rethink globalization; learn to be more self-sufficient, let
our menus follow the seasons. Lamb with mint sauce is Easter food we need not
eat lamb in October but Irish stew with turnips and boiled home grown potatoes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Retracing A Happening
Retracing a happening
Afternoon at the big hospital, far from home
I sat on my bed wearing a new pajama;
tomorrow, the surgery. From my window I could
see the zoo and cable cars going overhead so
punters could admire animals from above; but
think if a car fell into the tiger enclosure.
I had a packet of fags in the bedside drawer,
thought of sneaking into the loo, but someone
had removed the packet and lighter too.
I was in a strange mood, like I had hypnotized
myself and not me who sat on the bed like a lamb
that knows nothing of the morrow.
A brisk nurse came gave me a pill and a glass of
water, when I awoke my throat was sore, but
they wouldn´t give me water and I hated those
who had done this to me.
Three days later, a day in May, they let me go.
Dressed in shorts, open necked shirt I took a taxi to
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How Mild Fall Is
How mild the fall is?
I followed a track between tall, pale green cactuses, in this harsh landscape
where even the smallest plant has thorns, where bark and leaves, of even
regular trees, like carob and olive, are tough and will not softens to human
touch. Yet this is a landscape that once was tilled and now abandoned, does
this landscape’s common soul feels rancorous of being left to fend for itself?
I found a ruin. More than a ruin, a pile of stones only its outline told me that
once this had been a home where children had been born, lived and died
for generations, till someone said: enough! And left for pastures green, (most
likely USA or Canada,) poverty is only romantic in movies. Half of November
gone, I’m walking about in shirt sleeves the ground is rock hard and dusty,
the local paper tells us that 14 years ago the weather was mild too till January,
then it snowed and it was cold till May. Feel I’m being watched in the bushes
I see a boar watching me it is a wily old boar it sees I carry no gun, yet keeps
its distance; and high above me circles eagles; the landscape is teaming with
rabbits which used to be food for the people, who lived in the ruin (when
they could snare one) now business men, who have paid for a license to kill,
come here to unwind. To kill seems to satisfy a base desire in mankind; yet, it
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Lost In Athens
Lost in Athens
Athens confusing in august, what with the heat and pollution I had spent
The night sitting on a park bench, looking at a white wall on a tall building
lit up by moonlight and I had waited for a movie to begin. Forenoon,
staggered into a church, joined a queue, a priest was handing out bags of
sweet cakes, the old lady behind got none since she had been in the line
three times. I ate a cake and gave the rest to the lady. Grateful she ate
the rest blew up the bag and hit it against a tree and we were surrounded
by an anti terrorist squad. The old lady, a known would be terrorist, she had
been blowing up paper bag all over the town, was arrested, they were going
to arrest me too since I had supplied the bag, but since I was a tourist they
let me go with dire warning. Deep in the park I found a grotto, walked in and
saw baby Jesus inside a looked like an aquarium, he looked like a dead
angel as painted by Caravaggio, Jesus opened his eyes smiled like a street
urchin and began masturbating, chocked I took a step back and collided with
two nuns who laughed hysterically. Escaped the park and found a cellar cafe
drank some ouzo served by a women who looked like horse; she was a pony
that had escaped from a Swedish circus. We hit it off I have always been fond
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The Nap
The Nap
It’s time you wake up. I have slept long dreaming.
Yes, you have been sleeping too long most of your
life has passed by and you know little of this world,
how it works, not like your talk of equality which
cannot exist other than as cosmetics the icing on
the cake called democracy.
You must wake up now I don’t want you to go to
your grave a fool who thinks animal rights is a big
deal; yet eating beef; these obsessions with rights
belong to the well off middle class who can afford to
eat expensive no meat food, and too dense to know
that if you are poor, you eat cheap burgers
Wake up sentimental dreams, do become a man
your age, your mother has died and so has your dog,
tears are misplaced in the cold light of truth, so come
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Here We Go Again
Here we go again
One of the world biggest army has attacked Gaza, the world
biggest prison, how many killed? Who cares? I’m fed up of
this war now, we have been ringing around trying to book
a table at restaurant, everything is full in the neighbourhood.
The Gaza people have brought this on themselves, agreed
to a democratic election and elected Hamas, Israel wasn’t
standing for that having leaders who think Israel is a crown
of thorns carried by every Arab in the region; and as we know
by now (we have been told it often enough) that plucky little
Israel has the right to defend herself no matter what, they
have had their holocaust someone else can carry the can this
time. And then there is bloody Iraq, luckily not on the front
news anymore, but bombs are going off all the time killing
scores of people, at Christmas I ask you, as we sit down to eat
we get blood and mangled bodies in dusty streets, with our
turkey and two veg. why can’t Sunnis and Shiites live in peace
like us. Then there is Afghanistan those crazy Taliban and opium
smugglers like murdering people, so what we are doing there
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Journey To Lisbon
Winter Journey to Lisbon
Up rua Garrett I walked and it’s steep, in Baixa, the old heart
of Lisbon, past a shop that sells lottery tickets that sits beside
a shop that sells religious artifax, which is next door to a shop
that sells Cartier watches, if you buy a ticket and win, there is
money to decorate you mother’s grave and to buy a watch for
yourself. At the top of the street there is café Brasilia it used to
be Fernando Pessoa’s drinking den, the place is full of solemn,
nice Portuguese who, dressed for the occasion, drink nice cups
of coffee, their forefathers used looked down on Fernando,
irreverent poets and writers must go and drink elsewhere.
The master poet is now a statue sits outside in the rain and has
his picture taken by tourists, one wonders what he thinks of it all
as he sees the statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the Largo is called after him he is bald and
is dressed like monk. From Largo Chiado I could see the harbour
where tug boats ply their trade on grey waters; the church
“Incarnacao” where Antonio used to pray is beautifully restored,
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