The Last Dance
They had been dancing to the tunes of a juke box,
now it was dawn and they were alone except for
the barman who was asleep leaning his head on
his folded arms on the mahogany counter.
Soon the sun would break through followed by
the day and they had to face the dreaded future.
Both were married but not to each other, were their
love strong enough to survive the glare of the day?
They didn't know the answer, just one more dance.
Hell will come tomorrow with its heartache and loss,
but not yet. My god, let this moment last forever.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Cabin Fever
Cabin Fever.
The firewood in the hearth hiss and smoke
refuse to burn bright, these limbs of a giant
will not heat my cabin this winter evening.
I must have done something wrong, don’t
know what. I have doused the flaccid limbs
with alcohol, drank some too, now the fire
is burning bright with an inner ice blue tint.
From the floor looking up I see the roof is
on fire. Someone knocks on my door, I’m
a pirate burning my ship, there is rum for
everyone; for the dreary I’ve diet coke and
for the loony there is low fat yogurt.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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After A War
After a War.
1945 peace broke out, jubilant people danced
in streets; but there had to be revenge, women
who had slept with the enemy, the easy targets,
were rounded up, dragged to the police yard.
Heads were shorn, bald women what a strange
sight… tears and laughter. I knew one of them
she lived in a basement flat near us, she used to
give me soft slices of bread with strawberry jam.
I was told to not speak to her, this fallen hussy;
and that was ok, she was now poor as us had
nothing to give, but her shame and endless tears.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Pigeons
There are many pigeons in the Cascais evening park and
see one I remember, the one that trips stylishly around
looking for crumbs, it looks at me, to see if I´m eating.
In May it was a baby on my terrace trying out its wings,
one day it succeeded and flew off.
A pigeon doesn’t remember its childhood, so it doesn’t
has the burden of remembering infancy, blames no one
when things go wrong. Two women come and sit on my
bench, talk about offspring who will not listen; pity they
have not understood, like a pigeon mother, to let go.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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After The Wedding
After a Wedding
After the wedding when the happy couple
stood on the old church steps to have their
picture taken and a throng of people where
jousting to be in the frame too, I walked
around in the church and found in a corner
a white but dusty marble Virgin Mary.
Her eyes were demurely downcast: I said:
“We’re alone you can open your eyes now.”
Was it just my imagination, caused by my
longing to believe, that I saw an eyelid flutter
and a half smile play upon cold, dusty lips?
….Pale as limestone I rejoined the throng.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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What's In A Name
What’s in a Name?
Jesus had been thrown out of the café, he tends
to get laud and argumentative after wine.
Water into wine not a good idea.
Outside, he upended a few plastic tables, police
were called they drove him to the local station
put him in a cell at the back.
A cold cell after a few hours he was shivering
and they let him out he had a long walk home
to the cottage he shares with his mother
Jesus is a good lad, they all say so, and no one
but me is intrigued by his name, in this part
of the world it is a common forename.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Ancient Profession
The Ancient Profession
Now that prostitution in Norway, has been outlawed
those who turn tricks have to work harder than before,
some of them dress grandmotherly, wait at a crossing
for a man to help them over, and the where and when
are agreed upon. Authentically older women too have
been agreeably surprised never thought they were
going to be touched by a man, and they are not going to
tell. Alas all good things must come to an end, the law
is recruiting pensioned policewomen who do not fear
to go all the way to catch their man.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Just One More Cigarette...
It is evening they take him out of his cell and into
the walled court yard. An officer offers him a fag
he accepts, and smokes it slowly inhaling deeply.
The officer says, “don’t worry it will soon be over. “
Then they tie his hands behind his back, blindfold
him and place him against a pockmarked wall.
The officer asks if the prisoner, has a last word,
a message to the world or his family. The damned
shakes his head, a long silence, and a volley of fire.
Today, after being told by my doctor I’m an idiot,
I have stopped smoking.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Three Short Poems
Three short poems
An Echo of a Song.
As vapour trail of past dreams
slowly evaporates in cold air
of reality, new dreams are born
and cherished, till they too are
given leave to perish.
Winter Forest.
Days of twilight, winter cold and starlit.
Witches dance on coruscated snow, in
the dell, as silent trees bear witness to
nature’s cruel beauty.
The copy
Droplets of star’s tears on a green
ephemeral sky, moon is oxidized;
nights are ghostlier than the print
of the Chinese lady, on a dull wall,
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Curtain
Blank screen of doom find me wonderful words,
nothing fancy just words that have a resonance in
my mind and gladden my heart.
I remember a boy of fourteen, every morning at six
he milked, five cows, by hand, leaning his heads on
the cow´s womb he dreamt of Africa
Africa, but I met my wife she is from Congo, so you
may say I know Africa intimately but
that was not what the boy was dreaming of.
O, blank screen do not let me fall into banalities,
it is just I like to remember as much as I can
before the screen the curtain draws the screen.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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