Poet Without A Pen

A Poet without a Pen

On terrace I see city’s light shine as cold pearls along the bay,
but night sentinels have a duty to shine till first light of dawn.
Clouds are pushed around but sometimes there is a gap and
moonlight shines through. In the bay four cargo ships are
anchored, their mast lights are as low hanging bright stars.
Eight o´clock, evening and cooks on each ship are standing on
deck smoke a cigarette drinking coffee, glad this day is over.
Perhaps they see what I see before going into their cabin
leafing through old newspaper trying not to think of tomorrow.
Cooks on ships are dreamers neither crew nor officers and
every day they have to try to create something new with hand
and mind, sometimes overwhelmed, and since they never have
a day off, they tend to drink too, yet always do their duty.
A cook can´t articulate his longings or has he awareness to change.
Yet he continue his lonesome, unappreciated quest, because he
is a poet without a pen.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Fable Of Jesus

The Fable of Jesus

Jesus was skeptical of his own tribe, as a trainee carpenter he was
lousy couldn’t even make a simple bookshelf, they kidded him for that.
Jesus took umbrage and criticized the roman clinging priests.
He took to hanging out with a group of radicals of the day and since
he was good with words he soon became their leader.
There were a few groupies circling around his association, like Magdalena,
but they were for sexual enjoyment and not taken seriously.
Being admired by his flock Jesus thought he could take on the church and
the roman establishment, like when he chased money lenders out of
the temple. He was wrong. When they mocked him and crowded him
a king, he thought the people would come to save him.
Crucified, but women came to his rescue, healed his wounds and
sent him to France, where he took the name of Pierre.
He and his mistress, the despised tart Magdalene, had seven children
and he ended his days as a much respected goldsmith.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Killing

The killing

A flock of white doves flew over my house, heading due east, if they were flying to
Israel fat chance, and if they landed on the Gaza strip they would end up in a pot.
Last time I saw a white dove was in 1956, when I accidently killed one, I had made
a bow and arrow and shot into the air and hit one. Our neighbour came, pulled
the arrow out of quivering bird and gave it to me, but kept the dove. The aroma of
roasted bird wafted along the street. We sat eating fried mackerel with turnips,
“why didn’t you take the bird home? ” My mother asked. “But it was white and it
might have been an angel” I said.“? Never mind the colour, we are talking about
food, ” she said. My sister went even further insisted it was Jesus in disguise, and
I had to give her my chewing gum to atone for my sin. White doves of peace with
a palm leave in their beaks, how romantic, war is undying, peace is just a breather
and festive balloons as military brass bands play.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Portugal In September

Portugal in September.

Perfect translucent day and I can see the peculiar nature again,
as it is no longer a blur of glaring sunlight. It is like meeting
an old friend, one who was rumored to have died, in a country
I will not see again. Evergreens, carob and olive trees lost in
the mist of time, forever alone in the transience of seasons.
I also see glimpses of the sea it doesn’t interest me, not today
anyway, but I do notice it is deep blue and has white sails on.
On my scooter I drive across a narrow bridge they have been
working on so it can take heavy lorries, a road is being built
somewhere out of sight. Wish I were a painter, fair clouds on
azure sky, could be smoke signals sent by an Indian tribe yet
to be discovered, I see the past and future at the same time.
Bewildering, do I drive in a landscape of ancient dreams?
I better stop find at a café, drink a “Bica” (coffee) before I fade
into the mystery of nature and can’t find my way back home.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sharing Dreams

He had a dream of living a life of rustic idyll, to see and feel
seasons, so he bought a derelict cottage in pastoral Algarve.
Took his wife along, explained how the cottage would look
like when done up; she said nothing. With help of workmen
he began repair and life for a while was primitive. He saw his
wife was not happy, when she said she had go home to look
after her daughter, he understood. Months went, but a day
in February the home was ready, he had even acquired a dog.
Outside the almond trees were shedding and petals looked as
pink snow. Rang her, but she didn´t want to come and live in
his bucolic wonderland. "But I thought you liked it", he said.
"You never asked me, took me for granted, this is you dream
not mine…" The cottage was still and cold, his dog sensed his
dejections jumped up on his lap liking his face. He went into
the shed, collected wood for the fireplace, his dream was now
like an old coat too comfy to throw away.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Agents Abroad

Agents Abroad.
Tiny rooms in basements somewhere not far from the docks,
pink light, no air-conditions. Cartagena girls on contract going
from city to city, best years were as shorts as footballers; only
girls had shorter contracts. I remember this because Obama’s
security guards, coming to a foreign country went wild, living
as they do in a country where the puritans rule, those caught
philandering like Tiger Woods, get his balls cut off and he will
never be great again. Ok, Obama’s guards should be mortified
it is just the freedom to be a man not having going through
rituals of courtships must be great. Not easy to be American
male squeezed into an iron jumper of the moral brigade, all is
legal as long as you don’t get caught…and if you get trapped
go to the nearest church and confess in public, tell everyone
you are a Christians who have sinned, you’ll be forgiven if you
castigate enough, tears will help; but remember do not argue
with a prostitute.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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and Sweet Was My Love

….And Sweet was My Love

I had met her in the town where I went to school,
about an hour train ride from my town. She was
very sweet and I had met her parents they lived in
a big house that had a bathroom, a novelty for me,
mind I used the public baths near my home.

A Saturday she came to visit my mother, who
didn’t say much, it was like she was feeling shy,
and didn’t offer us anything to eat, my girlfriend
and I went to the movie and when we came back
mother had gone to bed and left us to it.

I had to tell my girl that the sofa we sat on, was
my bed and that I used a sleeping bag; however
we had a spare woolly blanket, I put it over us
to keep warm. Side by side, if not by Sondheim,
we cuddled and fell youthfully asleep.

[...] Read more

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Broremann The Farmhand

Broremann, the farmer worker.

Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Mice versus rats

I'm not for spending money or traveling abroad, but when I opened
the drawer, at the bottom of my desk, it was full of tiny mice, nesting
on my check- book, since I hadn't opened for years; they had eaten
my passport too, and a couple of poems I thought were too racy to be
published.22 mice smaller than a baby's thumb confused in the glare
of light the creatures thought my fingers were other mice when I tried
to retrieve my check book- and out of date my passport.

Closed the drawer to the mice's delight, thought it had been a deviation,
got hold of a tin bucket opened the drawer again and put them all in there,
yes, even the babies- there are times in life when one can show no mercy-
my intention was to drown them, but could not, their struggle to climb up
the bucket must be honored. At night I let them free on the sandy lane.
When I opened the drawer next day a big rat sat there, bit my finger it had
stolen my credit card…. Now, how do you explain that to a bank manager?

poem by Oskar Hansen
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If I were a bard

If I were a young Bard.

I wrote my first poem when I was about 13.I was taking a short cut home
when I saw a woman washing her herself by the fire place, few people in
those days had a bathroom. I was so enthralled by this that I wrote a poem.
My older brother found it, gave my ode to my mother, who said I was a pig.
This shocked me so much that I never wrote another poem before I was fifty
one. But all the poems I didn’t write came tumbling out it was like they had
been filed in my head waiting for me to pick up a pen. This particular well is
empty, the poems I write now are contemporary. I have a collection of
verses, edited by a friend of mine “The Tasmanian Tiger” when settlers came
to Tasmania they eradicated that animal, it will never come back and that
saddens me deeply. In Norway we very nearly killed off the wolf, my inner
ear can hear them, in a snowbound dale them when the moon is full and
I too can howl to a mythical past; a longing for harmony in a cruel world.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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