Melancholy 1
Melancholy
On an impulse I went to see my daughter, who lives in a hilly town
with bad roads. My ex girlfriend walked in, she is an unfinished love
story, sun tanned and beautiful, but she had been drinking, and
didn’t see me. She wanted to drink some more, people tried to stop,
her, she shrugged them off, unsteadily walked out to find a tavern or
two. Later that evening I booked into a hotel and could hear her tipsy
laughter in the bar. I didn’t join the set, but went up to my room.
It turned out she had a room next to mine and later I endured her
having sex with a man she had picked up somewhere. Met her in
the breakfast room next morning, her casual lover had long since gone
and she appeared glad to see me. We chatted about the old days,
held hands and her eyes were sea green. We made love in my bed,
she was warm and giving as always; tremor in her hands she had
a whisky and fell asleep in my arms.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Face
The Face
On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that
has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face,
of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his
shop, now he had to rush out, buy up pastries in other
places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own,
but he got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his
burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell
them to children on their way to school, or old folks who
are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag.
His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery - they haven’t
been married long- they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get
the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset
him during baking hours, he isn’t mad at her, not since
she told him she had a bun in the oven herself.
And the tree, it’s an olive tree- silvery in winter light- is
silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Discontent
Winter of discontentment
I fear my almond tree has bloomed too early, a few good days,
it and I thought it was spring. Cold wind, they may die before
the flowers are ready to shed their petals and pretend its snow.
We are both stalwarts, when I first came here it was but
a sapling. I have a fire roaring and the dog no one looks after
is sleeping on the chair near the fire. Weather bad I didn’t have
the heart to leave it outside. I’m not prince Charles I don’t talk
to trees, but I do give it a friendly slap on its trunk if no one is
looking. I’m a sucker for down and outs, today I bought a chicken
dinner for the Roma woman who begs outside the supermarket.
A guard came and told me I mustn’t feed them, like they should
be some sort of animals. I love my almond tree it reminds me
of mother when she was sick and old, but beautiful in her frailty.
There was little I could do only tell of my love for her.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Cobwebs Of Dreams
The cobwebs of Dreams
It was a clear day…too clear I thought. Mother sat in the kitchen
and sunlight made her white hair into a halo. I asked her who
old she was. Ninety two, she said, knew I was trapped in a dream
as she didn’t live that long. By the slow river I saw furniture drift
along. Brother said that people who lived downstream went
upstream to buy furniture, to save on transport cost they dumped
the stuff into the river where relatives, downstream, picked it up.
Sometimes they lost a table or a commode but that’s a risk one
has to take. I knew this too was a dream, Walked along a soft road,
in a forest, but something was wrong there was a strange red light
emitting from the trees, now I was trapped inside a painting by
a mad Russian artist; luckily I had a flick knife. It is morning, that is
I think it is, sometimes the line between reality and the subconscious
merges, perhaps yesterday is today
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Lost At Sea
Lost At Sea
It was a quiet night when I woke up in the small cabin I shared with
the other deck-boy. The porthole was open and brought a welcoming
cooling breeze and I fell asleep again wondering idly what the other
deck boy was up to. He was missed at eight o’clock by, the time his
watch began, the ship turned around and on the enormous sun sparkly
mirror, we looked for him. We knew this was hopeless but something
had to be written in the ship’s logbook.
His name was Terje, a puny little boy who cried a lot when shouted
at and therefore was an easy target to make fun of by the crew.
His steady masturbation had gone on my nerves, mostly because
he dried his fluid on the curtain that covered each bunk for privacy.
Crew, silent for a few days, feeling guilty for teasing him, I too felt
a nip of guilt I enjoyed having the cabin by myself, when we docked
in Port-of-Spain, Trinidad, Terje was all but forgotten.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Miracle
Miracle
The Dakota plane should have been scrapped years ago,
eight soldiers and me, they took off my handcuffs laughed
and said I was free to go. Looking down I could see glitzy
Pacific Ocean; they opened the door and threw me out.
I fell and fell, air rush sounded as an express train, terror
froze my brain, but I remember thinking: “this is not a day
for enjoying the view.”Miracle! A mist bank crossed my
path so thick it broke my fall to a gentle descent and put
me softly on top of a tree that had many branches, it was
like going down a ladder which I had done often, (I used
to be a house painter.) People came running, I had landed
on a tiny island, they gave me coconut milk to drink and
told of a military plane that had crashed on a mountain
slope. I didn’t, gloat knew what they must have suffered,
drank more sweet milk, climbed up a hut on stilts and went
to sleep on a fragrant mat of palm leaves.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Earthquake
Earthquake in Haiti
The corpses look like they have been flung down from the sky,
rejected by god for being too poor. Broken limbs and stillness in
the dust. There is a groundswell of a cry, a primitive anger that
has nowhere to go, but inwards eating the victims of injustice like
a virulent cancer. We are religious people who do our Ave Marias
and voodoo on the side. We pray to god and saints, so why this
devastation? Long deep trenches, a place for obese bodies, many
with hands stretching skywards as asking why did you forsake us?
And as always the heaven is silent, yet in the absence of hope and
the rumor of an angel is walking amongst the poor blessing them,
there is hope. But more body fall, rejected by the heaven; and our
bishop is dead too. The cry of anguish will tear us apart till we lose
our reason, sink to our knees and pray to a god that knows no mercy;
as cadavers keep falling from an indifferent sky.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Continuation
The Continuation
It is night they have all gone to bed, since I’m old and sleep little
my job is to keep the ember alive in the stove, add a piece of wood
now and then. My granddad used to do that keeping the flames
alive, so when the young got up the rooms wouldn’t be too cold.
I sit in darkness but see through curtains snow falling adding to
millions of other snowflakes, I know the children will be exited,
the adults less so. For me it doesn’t matter, but I haven’t forgotten
the pleasure of a snowy landscape. It is odd, me godless man, feel
an inner peace, everything that has happened fits together I have
meet my ghosts; nothing scares me anymore except rumours of
a new war. As a child I knew war and all its brutality, I was hoping
my grandchildren would be spared. I’m nearly falling asleep but my
granddad awakes me, whispers about my obligations, I add a piece
of wood to the fire and dream of yesteryear.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Adulterous Sea
The Adulterous Sea
I drove to the top of a mountain along lanes that began in the mist of time.
Looking north I could see the plateau of Alentejo, westward the Atlantic sea;
it was her, the trollop; I wanted to see from a safe distance. Glittering azure
tender and inviting, the tart. My bond to her, is that of a kind magistrate who
in his youth, visited a whore who served him sinful pleasures that gave him
a longing for the unobtainable. There were times, on deck, in tropical nights,
when she called my name and I could have drowned in her balmy embrace,
but she laughed turned away from me and loved someone else. I thought
she was forgotten, till she reappeared and smiled in the sea green eyes of
a woman I loved. She too walked away; loved someone else. I hear her song,
the bitch of my life, the whispering and undulating waves. And I say: “Just
one wicked embrace more, my lovely, and I will not dream of you anymore.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Reflection In A Phial
Reflection in Phial
I look at my hands they are brown as a farmer’s, this pleases me
although I have no tractor or a mule. A workman’s sturdy hands,
all socialists should have hands that have harvested carrots.
I flex the muscles of my upper arms, see the faint movement
like mice moving under thawing spring snow. Glorious vanity to
think I used to do 100 press ups a day only because I lived in fear
of being a weakling. I think of sex, and sadly conclude I never was
a great lover, when the act was done I reached for the book I was
reading. Yet women liked me because I was not pretentious, they
also tried to domesticate me as I had an affinity to walk my own
way and often ended up in seedy bars. The squalid side of life has
always mystified me, why does a person choose a road that leads to
ruin and hardship? I have always been lazy, strenuous effort will not
touch me. But I would like to have my muscular arms back.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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