Caribbean Night
Tropical night, starlit, if I recall rightly; there was
sliver of a golden moon also. We drank beer too,
the sea is an enormous waste bin, plop, plop.
Someone brought guitar, nights like this ought to
have music, the gentle murmour of voices stilled.
The guitar player wasn't any good, but for awhile
we sat politely listening to his pathetic attempts.
His friend got up, threw the instrument overboard.
We drank more beer, listened to our own dreams;
mine was about a guitar playing dolphin.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Daughter
The Daughter.
Daughter, of the police officer who wore black riding boots,
was shining them, a call came he had been killed in traffic
accident. She put polish and brush into a cupboard no longer
a slave of a father who used boots as mirrors in the morning
when shaving, and if he couldn´t see clearly beat her with
a leather strap. Father in his coffin, she polished his medals
he looked grand in death. But for the daughter, of the officer,
each medal reminded her of the leather lash.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Islamic Legacy
Islamic Legacy?
The great Mohammed, a man of peace?
His words has been hijacked by zealots
busy blowing up people in the name of
Allah. These extremist s often young men
Egged on by elders, believe in a heaven
of virgins for their delight, this tells
us non believers that religions are bad
for your health. We must strongly resist
these militants who claim they speak on
behest of a god that only exist in minds
filled with hatred of those who do not
share their violent and doomed faith.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Senior Student
Senior Student.
Senescence...don’t know what that word means,
I forget so many words now a days.
A man called Alexander has stopped writing says
he forget dates and names of famous persons
but isn’t that what Wikipedia is for?
Senescence...old age, I read, better than senile which
is a word full ancient dust, of knowledge chipped off
an old statue, like the one I saw in Rome,
time had made his face featureless and he had lost
six fingers. Senior citizen me? I still have nine fingers.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Greetings
Greetings
The lone star beer was ice cold, turned my teeth into
glaziers. My mind froze as polar bears hunted seals
on ice floes. I shuddered and thought of home.
“Don’t you like the American way? ” A tall Texan said.
He looked like a US Marshal, grey suit and a Stetson
hat, also grey.” I love America, especially Texas”, I said.
With frostbitten lips I told him I had been to New York
too, but preferred Houston. To this everyone smiled
and the big man said: ” welcome to Texas.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Misty Day
Glancing out of the window I see the potted plant
on the sill and the house on the other side of
the road… the light is fading and the plant looks as
sad as a whitewashed wall in rain… its whiteness
was an illusion caused by the sun.
Mist of grief encircles olive trees there are blank
tears on my almond tree´s spindly twigs, yet inside
each droplet I see a tiny world reflecting my own,
only with greater incorruptibility of the untested.
And far away, as a whisper, a mother sings a lullaby.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Huldra
In the green valley
Near lake blue and pink salmon
Lived a huldra
Beautiful in human eyes
But trolls had rejected her
Ugly in their eyes
I heard her desolate song
Saw her shimmering
Blond as Iberian sea straw
Made gold-leaved by the sun
I saw her tail too
And before she charmed me
Sprinted for my life
Since folklore has made it clear
Human and trolls may not mix
Because if they do
The offspring will be rejected
By trolls and human
And for perpetuity be lost
Walking the strand of loneliness
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Modest Table
A Modest Table
The table is like a flag wrapped little coffin
only it is not a flag of hubris and nationality,
but a cloth with roses, sewed by a woman
with time at hand and love in her heart.
The table is rough hewn but solid it will not
suffer illnesses of old age, but perhaps get
wood-worms.
It will last longer than I will, till new owners
will throw it on the dump or break it up and
use it as firewood a cold winter night.
In the meantime, as we wait, I rest my feet on
it when watching TV.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Occupiers
The Occupiers
They came, the huddled masses, victims
of a war and pogrom far from our shores;
we gave them room at the inn, and on
our common land they could graze sheep.
They have now taken over the inn, stolen
our common land, bulldozed our villages
and uprooted olive trees to build roads we
cannot use, erected walls to keep us out.
They want us to leave to roam the world
as they did; we will not, we shall stay here
near our ancestors and the land and wait,
yes, wait till they uproot again and leave.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Fable
A Fable (the Origen of Rain)
After Christmas the angels had a shower,
there are more angels now than before
and some of them are Moslems.
The entry to heaven is no longer about
being a Christian, but about leading a good
life and being kind to others.
It is no longer a must to look saintly to be
an angel- golden hair and asexual- one can
be bald, have black or red hair too.
There are millions of non Christians on our
world, the heaven is getting crowded, thus
when they all shower it rains for days.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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