december in Paris
December Paris
Winter Paris pavement cafés vacant chairs and poor sparrows look for
baguette crumbs. Artists had gone to their loft conversions, in bed with
their models and plates of goose liver pate, waiting for a better time.
I came across a posh bistro people inside wore silk suits, doors locked;
invitation only. A famous philosopher came out, said something deep
about peace- in broken English- then asked where the camera was.
When he saw I wasn’t a journalist he said: Merde, and walked back in.
At the bookshop Shakespeare, academic tourists had assembled they
looked through books of famous writers, thought of saying that two of
my poetry collections were there, but they looked so educated, wore
capes of superiority and poetry workshop shoes I lost my nerve. Rain,
found a bistro at a side street, had coffee with an Armagnac, thought
of the days when Ernest Hemingway scribbled away here, other writers
too, when Paris was not so haughtily conscious of her artistic status.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Wine Story
An Abridged Story of Wine
The bottom of the nave used to be a lake's bed, but one night,
when moon was white as search light and the sky maroon,
the lake vanished. Dead fish and toenail clippings at the bottom,
but the soil was rich, and the people who used to fish for a living,
planted vine which bore healthy grapes, but grapes fermented
and wine was discovered. A drink that made them merry, they
sang, slapped flat stones together and made music.
But if drinking too much they ended fighting and used stones as
missiles, and given to arguing about the quality of snow that fell
the year before. In clay pots they sold red wine and became rich,
till Moslems came, forbad the making of wine, they planted pale
yellow orange trees instead. But the juice of sweet blue grapes
has an unstoppable allure it fills heart with music, the production
was moved to hidden dells in Alentejo. When Arabs, defeated by
Christian hordes, fled; Iberia had abundance of red wine but also
sugary orange juice.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Coming Wars
Coming War.
The sky is silent no flight overhead except screaming military jets there
are soldiers in the wood, guns at the ready. The dog that follows me on
my walks, took fright and disappeared in the underground. As I walked
past them they ignored my greetings. Deep silence, am I their target?
Vultures in the sky circling about, waiting to hear shots and a possible
meal…Me. A sharp order from an officer and the soldiers marched in
an opposite direction. The dog rejoins me I’m not its owner so it didn’t
feel it had to risks its life for me. The warning of wars coming this way,
sure as thunder and storm.60 years of peace, save Balkans, in Europe
It’s spooky. People of Europe feel it too hence the haste to go back to
their own countries, where they will feel safe huddled together waiting
for the battle that will end the perverted lethargy hanging over us.
When the storm has passed the survivor will feel energized work hard
to build a new Europe; and say: “No more Wars”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Schooner
The Schooner
On the flatland between the vales I could see the sea, had been
walking uphill for a long time now, after the plain it was downhill
and the way to the coast was easy enough only it was getting
cold and I wore a light navy uniform. (had been on furlough)
Then I saw a protestant house of worship, but it was there on its
own no other houses to be seen not even a lone light from a farm.
A window was open and since it was also getting dark I was tired
I climbed in and rested on a pew.
Fell asleep, awoke and heard organ music the church was full of
matelotes singing psalms. The pastor spoke about sin, redemption
and god’s glory, then his flock silently left. Dawn, I saw a magnificent
sunrise, continued my walk to coast.
In a morning open café I told a girl behind the counter where I had
slept, she looked confused as far as she knew the church was
torn down years ago since it was haunted, as it was built of planks
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Winter Of Discontent
The phone rang a day before Christmas a message I knew would come
but would not like to hear. Mother had died and there was a great haste
now before the festive season. Yet in my despair I picked up the phone
and rang her number in the hope it had all been a dreadful mistake…any
minute now she will answer be glad to hear my voice; and she would tell
me I’m susceptible to cold and remember to wear a scarf.
Fully awake I rushed to the airport, sorry fully booked till after Christmas.
“Please if there is a cancellation ring me.” The phone didn’t ring.
When I finally got there snow had covered flowers and her name was not
yet carved on a stone. This emptiness, this hole in my heart, I knew it had
to happen one day, but not now not ever. At her home they were busy
dividing her things. No I didn’t want anything only her reading glasses,
she had thought me how to read. A life had ended and for the first time in
my life I knew how it felt like to be alone under a cold Nordic sky.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Woman´s World
It is a woman´s world
The new sex symbols are men they want to look like
muscular heroes seen on TV and on films.
They train several times a day to get a perfect body
other men have, thinking they must to attract women,
but all they attract are other men who fall into
the same trap what a beautiful body is the beginning
and a goal by itself. Why is it that men have been
reduced to think of their body must be perfect when
it by itself has little value? In a world where women
are equal; men subconsciously think they have in order
to attract women must look nice and attractive.
But women are not stupid they may adore a beautiful
Body, but they prefer, after having a fling with a body
builder, marry a man with prospects who can give
them security and economic stability. Women are not
romantic, they pretend to be, but prefer to marry
a man who can look after their children regardless if
the man are the real fathers or not, because a man
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The New Tyranny
The New Tyranny
This dawn after rain had trumpeting its force on the old roof tiles
It ceased a soft a soft drizzle, Yes I know I should get up at eight
steeped as I’m in a protestant work ethic, but overcome by
laziness slept for another hour. In my drowsiness I thought how
our freedom has been restricted by the internet.
Our thoughts and secrets are no longer our property but shared
by authorities that want to know our innermost thoughts, we are
prisoners of an all embracing society that will not tolerate thoughts
other than the banal comments about friends’ birthdays.
What was heralded to be a great instrument of communication is
spied upon by our leaders who know more about us now then
the Stasi did in East Germany. Free speech only exist for those who
have nothing to say and accept living in the land of conventions.
Nothing can be nobler if we demand our right not to be censured
and called seditious because we will not be trapped into trivial
acceptance of perceived lies.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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When Autumn Begins
When Autumn Begins
20 hundred hours…is that nautical enough for you? Evening sky was marvelous,
I should have been a painter my anemic words cannot justify the awe the world
still can offer us who are not blind. Blaring horns, the road back home is narrow
and impatient drivers wanted to pass I pulled over and a driver shouted: “fools
like you should be banished from driving. “ Guess he was right. It was darkening
quickly big juicy drops hit asphalt drummed on the roof and hollered: “save us
take us home we don’t want fall on a useless road, we’ll water your rose bushes,
the thorny ones that cut your arms when you try to prune them, we can promise
a dew fresh rose for you lapel.” Right! Like I should be a city gent, I haven’t got
a suit, so there. Afar a fog horned blared melancholically, once I was a seafarer
but the roses I met in harbour bars, had only vulgar beauty to offer. At home rain
fell on old tiles, I made a whisky mixed with rose dew and thought of lost love.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Art Of Catering
The Art of Catering
There was a time I believed everything I read, even in Reader’s Digest.
one such story was about a French soldier in the world war one who,
in his breast pocket carried a notebook full of verses written for his
true love in Lyon, a daughter of a welder. His adulation saved his life.
It was not for me to reflect upon how a note book could stop a bullet.
I told mother I wanted to join the French foreign legion get wounded,
not too serious mind, all this to impress the girl next door she didn’t
like bookish boys who wore round black framed glasses. I threw my
glasses away and for two weeks couldn’t read and tended to walk into
lampposts. I challenged the biggest bully in the school yard for a fight…
and got a bloody nose. I became a trainee cook and the girl next door
laughed till she cried. Back then cooking was not a big deal. Now that
no one, not even women know how to make an omelet cooks or chefs
are super stars and show their skills to adoring fans on TV.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Ploughed Fields
Ploughed Fields.
My neighbour has started his tractor diesel fume wafts through the open kitchen window.
On his way to plough the field across the road, dark furrows in damp soil, birds sit in trees
read the upturned soil for tidbits. My neighbour doesn’t read has no computer, and give
damn about wikileaks; evenings he and his wife sit in their kitchen and watch soaps, news
is too boring. Me, I’m amazed the stupidity of the unscripted soap news is, this struggle for
dominance, making friends with vile dictators in the hope of landing a fat military contract
selling hardware and to have a base so they can keep an eye on the opposition. Winner and
losers in a mortal dance embraced by phony friendship. And when a tyrant goes against our
interest we kill him off and look for one who can do our bidding. What the people want is
banalities such as peace and democracy, but that’s too bothersome. My neighbour knows
this and let birds fight amongst themselves over title tattles and succulent worms.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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