Before Wine Is Drunk
Before wine is drunk
We are going to an art exhibition this afternoon, but first we have to
buy groceries, cabbage, leek, bread, margarine, milk and tomatoes.
You can’t eat a picture even if it displays an orange beside a banana,
“I will give you “The Scream” for a boiled potato and a slice or two
of yesterday’s loaf, ” the poor artist said. I had no time to cook, gave
him ten shilling and hung the painting in the toilet; it was stolen by
a guest who needed a leak. He sold it for a million; the painter got
his photo in the newspaper and was never hungry again, I have a pale
square on the bathroom wall. Günter Grass, I always think of horses
when mentioning his name, paints still-life and his yellow in lemons
is stunning, I drink tea with citron for weeks after seeing his work.
I have no original paintings on my walls. But many prints, and that’s
ok, I just like art, but dislike fake experts who think they know what
the painter thought of when putting wonder on his blank canvass.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Middle Class In Algarve
Middle Class Retirees. (Algarve)
When she gets up her husband has gone to the golf course, she drinks
a cup of weak tea and has a toast without butter. Then the grooming
begins it takes hours, hair, nails the right dress to choose, takes time;
after all she is going to meet the other ladies and they are a critical lot.
She drives her white Mercedes and tries to park as close as possible
near the café, when she enter there are kisses, big smiles and furtive
looks how the other ladies are dressed, colour combination and so on.
They all have long decorated nails this indicated they have a maid to
do the dishes; they chat is about film stars and others in the news and
how they dress. The ladies eat cream cakes and forget for a moment
about dieting. This séance last about two hours and is the highlight of
ladies day. She drives home, changes her frock, makes a meal for her
hubby just home and suntanned from his golfing, and tells him to take
a shower since they are going to an art exhibition at eight.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
When The Running Stops
When the Running Stops
In the enclose, outside the slaughterhouse, sheep were running in rings,
first to the left, and then to the right; in the end there was only one left
and it was too tired to run. I have lost two more friends, feel as I’m
the only sheep left in the enclosure and too tired to run. Heartache and
fun, we had it all in our adolescence. Then our way parted, but you never
forget a childhood friend.
Two years ago I was going to see them, a reunion of school friends going
back fifty years. In the end I didn’t go, knew we would talk a lot first then
fall silent. What we remembered was our friendship then and the past is
another country, as the poet says.
I knew the chasm of years could not be bridged, over meal and too much
wine. One of my friends sent me a photo of the party, a group of old men
I would have walked past in the street and not recognized any of them.
I put the photo up on the wall in my office, but soon took it down again.
Time is a cruel enemy I cry for them and me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Celebrity Status
The thirst for Celebrity Status.
Is there a doctor in the house, no it’s only me and I’m chef and I have
burned my hand frying fish. Once I was asked by a stewardess if I was
a doctor, one of her charges had taken ill. I was flattered and took my
ladle and pots out. What is his profession, I asked, he is an historian,
I made him an ancient omelet; the historian recovered. In Milan a call
to the audience: Is there a tenor in the house, our tenor has expired,
no one put a hand up; I did and killed the Figaro drivel once and for all.
Once train conductor let me wave a green flag and blow the whistle,
the train left without me, which was a pain, my wife and suit cases were
onboard. It was a slow train to Porto, took a taxi to the next station and
boarded the train as my wife left having had enough of my quest for
recognition. It is all about fame if you lack it you are fucked, reduced
to writing poetry no one reads in humble internet sites, in the hope of
reaching a reader who is as lonely as you are.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Dissonance Of Images
The dissonance of Images
Where is Haiti again? Or for that matter Chile? Both nations were on
the news only a few days ago. Earthquakes and tsunamis, was it not?
Folks’ been knocking on my door wanting money to help people of
Madeira, which is nearer home so we know it is a tourist island. Ebb
and flow of tragedies, soon forgotten. Now we have vivid flicks from
an exploding volcano on Iceland, a small village has been evacuated in
case snow turns into water and drown them all. Iceland has ponies,
that produce manure, which is good for the roses. There are no trees
on the isle, and few dogs, thus it’s possible to walk in its capital without
stepping on dog turd. Not that this fable will want me to go live there.
So much news, the radio, TV, and now, on your mobile phone as well.
The dissonance of images lose all meaning, we hear and see no evil;
until black smoke rises from behind the mountain and a voice screams:
“Do you want total war? ” Heaven help us if the echo’s answer is: ”Yes! ”
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Letter To A Young Poet Revised
Letter to a young Poet
Dear Raman, so you want me to read your poem and state my opinion.
Well, you are fond of words and you are stacking them up in your poem.
That is a good thing; clearly you are a man who reads a lot.
So you want to be a poet, poetry is self indulgent pass time it doesn’t
change anything, no one reads it, other than cranky people. Should
a poet writes something nationalistic that resonance with, a nation’s
pride, like: “my country is the best in the world.” He will get a medal.
So why don’t you become an engineer or failing that, a cook. The world
doesn’t need, anymore academic poets who forever repeat what poets
of yore have said. For the common man a poet is regarded as a figure of
fun who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make
sense of a world he doesn’t understand. As my father said, when my first
poem was published: “How much did they pay you? ” If my words have
not scared you off, you’re a poet. The only tool you’ll need is honesty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
In The Eye Of The Beholder
I hide from lives storm in a dale of incognito, gone is my name,
my gravestone will be free of a name and time of casting anchor.
Write I was a seaman cast ashore by a storm and could not return,
walking on the shore listen to the siren’s call and fond silence.
And perhaps a man who has lost everything in life is walking his
dog, picks up a shell and listen to eternities soothing drone.
And the dog which soul is transient and wander from generation
to the next will wag its tail in tender memory of your life.
Yet forever to its present owner which it knows is mortal and will
end up as a memory by Canis familiars not yet to be born.
But as long as dogs, that have thrown in their lot with man, roam
and survive, we shall be there as a testament to eternity.
When you look into a dog’s eyes you’ll see a mirror and another
mirror and you will see the birth of humanity and kindness.
You will come to realise the only anchor you need is love of life,
and respect for all living creature on our little blue planet.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Landscapes
Landscapes
The landscape I walk, used to be guarded by stone hedges; infinite
supply of stones this soil yields if not much else. Nature has taken
back what man did, the landscape is lush of weed, and bent trees.
I’m sliding into silence, but if I listen I can hear Spanish bluebells
peal in a mild breeze that also carries a whisper of a Nordic lullaby,
Last year a Canadian couple walked with me, their ancestors came
from around here. We stopped outside a ruin and they went silent,
cried. An ancient memory stirred they knew this place. Where their
tears had fertilized the ground, is, this year, full of wild flowers.
No, they are not returning, Canadians now and proud of that too.
I sit on a stone, not by the river of Babylon, and see how the brook,
free from icy shackles elatedly run, will not heed words of caution.
I have made boats of bark, and sail of green leaves, see them hasten
towards the North Sea. The brook is no more, indifference has seen
to that, but the landscape of my childhood is clear as a stream.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Evening In Paradise
Evening in the village it is about nine o'clock nothing on TV except
men in nice suits and cuff links talking about the economy, they all
are experts yet disagree about everything banging hands on table,
getting red faced and angry, so I switched off. A motorbike is making
its unsteady progress through the village, Joao home from the bar,
dogs don't bark, know the sound it is only when he is trying to get
off and fall they bark a little, angry voices, and then utter stillness.
I stroll through the village only street every window is shuttered not
letting out light it is like they think they have to pay extra if it does.
I walk down to the main road and hope anything would come to pass
enveloped as I'm by tediousness. A car drives past I spend minutes,
wondering where it is going. Back home I switch the TV back on,
a drone attack an important terrorist has been killed, as have eleven
other mostly children, collateral damage, but we fight a global war.
I wished for and found my Paradise on earth and it is bloody boring.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Lucky Break
The young Russian, who had ended up on the shores of Algarve,
was drunk, poor and miserable. He offered people to help unload
trolleys into cars, few wanted him to do so as he was a big man
and looked threatening. Cold shoulders of contempt, yes he did
noticed it ok and every arrow of rejection found its mark.
He approached me I gave him enough money to buy a litre of
wine. A litre of wine would bring some relief he would be able to
sleep for a few hours, but knew he would wake up at dawn, feel
wretched and ashamed full of hopelessness and thinking how to
escape this misery that only drink could assuage for a few hours.
Once I was drunk, skint and far from home, I went into a church
for warmth, found a big money note on the floor I put it in
the collection box and cursed. Hell it I could not take the note
back it would look like a theft. I don’t know what I feared the most
stealing or being caught stealing. The day after I got a job, no it
didn’t make me religious, but it made me appreciate the element
of luck in life.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!