JAN OSCAR HANSEN
Norwegian
Ex. merchant navy
Lives in Portugal
Borrows the English Language
Published in Mags world wide
and in many antholgies.
own book "Letters From Portugal"
published by bewrite and sold
through amazon
Age: a hevy burden.
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GENTRIFICATION
Dogs are pets now, sheep and donkeys
are soft toys bought for pre school tots
who sing: Baa, baa little lamb. Donkeys
are funny too heehaws when squeezed
cows are blue and appears only on milk
cartons. You see my village has been
so gentrified that we have to buy manure
for our rose bushes.
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THE GOAT LADY
The thin woman who lives in the cottage with
blue borders keep goats and wears a happy
smile under a brown hat. She's lives alone but
talks to Jesus, god's only son, a lot. He's her
best friend tells us what he has said, it may
sound banal like Dalai Lamas profundities but
we're a cynic lot who don't believe in much.
She's mad, people unkindly say, no she isn't
I say, why should she see a psychiatrist and
become "normal" and miserable like us?
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FAT TREES
Trees are silent but the group of olive trees
standing near where the road bends before
going up to our village were in the westerly
breeze talkative as politicians inspecting
a scene of disaster promising a quick decision
there is talk of money in the air and rebuilding
words that will be watered down later.
A lone, shabby but artistically interesting
almond tree smiles sardonically it has sparse
green and brown leaves on thin branches
after all September aren't almond trees best
season they bloom in early spring and strew
confetti on us undeserving poor it murmur
something contemptible about fat olive trees.
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THE ACTRESS
I should have remembered her better not only hazily
in days of rain when I listless look out of the window
and feel numbed by greyness. She had been an actress
now retired, time isn't kind to any in that profession
even to the famous, say, Judy Dench even less so too
those who played bit parts (busty barmaid pulling pints)
Years are arrows puncturing boobs and confidence
when I close my eyes and try to remember her face
Marlyne Monroe's floats up to the surface, but that's
not the right face, it's more like the actress, who won
an Oscar and cries real tears at the drop of a raindrop.
This rain can't remember her name, but she had sad
eyes brown and looked autumish lonely.
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THE SPORTS GROUND
Weather is fine we are playing handball
today our gym teacher picks two captains
they are always the same tall boys taller
than the rest of us, arrogant you can see
they have been told by their parents that
they are better than us.and I know I'll
be picked the last, being small, skinny
missed school a lot due to tuberculosis.
I'll play the clown they laugh and notice
me; the teacher too, but I'm still the last
with a shoulder shrug one of them points
at me, with anger and fear in my guts
I take my place in the team.
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THE BIG CAT
On the wall, in a hunting lodge a moth eaten tiger pelt hangs, the once
fierce animal shot by a red-faced colonel now a dismally forgotten trophy.
There are no tigers in Bengali except for a mad one in a zoo, which bangs
its head against iron bars. Tigers are not social animals, yet each one knew
where the others were and that's was a good for a tiger to know, not now as
there aren't any tigers in Bengali the last one hang on a wall.
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The Cherry Tree
Sonia, walking her dog stumbled and fell down a deep
narrow well when reaching bottom she was covered
in soil. Her little dog barked for her to come back up thinking it was a new
game she didn't and as darkness hovered above the plain her pet walked home
unable to tell anyone what had befallen. Out of Sonia's heart a shut grew,
seeing light up there it quickly rose. and when reaching surface Sonia was a
pretty cherry tree that blooms all year. Alas, like her dog she was unable
to tell anyone
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THE OLD ELEPHANT
A big hall, an indoor fair in Glasgow where a bull
elephant chained, rocks to and fro. It had cried but
was angry now a deep ire against mankind. Then
the chains snapped, it broke lose upended stalls
chased uncaring man out of the hall trumpeted so
loudly that other chained elephants, throughout
the land, could hear its call. and bells in church
towers tolled. They also heard the shot bowed their
heads, dreamed of their native soil where the soul
of the bull elephant had gone.
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MOTHER RAT
The big mother rat sat outside near the sewers exit cleaning her face and
enjoying first morning light
Happy smiled had just eaten a month old abortion
she had no perception of guilt not even when the tiny
human heart still ticked as she ripped into soft flesh.
It wasn't for a mere rat to reflect upon what could
have happened if the foetus had been allowed to be
a living child. She had been a mother too, most of
her offspring had died, which is the cruel law of
nature in a colony of rats, but those who lived did
well in the sewer world and she was proud of them
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THE INNOCENT PIG
The spotted pig grunted happily digging its snout into
soft soil, in the trench behind the tropical island's cat house. So much
human waste to eat that he was getting fatter than is normal for a free
range, pig to be.
Unknown to it though, the pig was watched by hungry human eyes next week,
when the ship sails, the tarts
will have a feast, dance and sing they will when digging into a succulent
roast. How is the pig to know?
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THE DONKEY
In the midday heat, of a tropical day an eternally
patient donkey stood waiting for it owner who had
gone in to a café for a cold beer. The donkey was
grey and looked old it had a straw hat on with holes
for its ears. Flies drank liquid from its eyes and it
blinked to keep them away. Went near and helpful
waved my hands in front of its face. It kicked me
cruelly and kept on being eternally patient alone.
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FESTIVITIES
Casts off for the poor giving more to the smelly beggar
by the supermarket's door the one we usually ignore
This frantic racing around heart pounding wallet empty
drunk and tired on the eve, eating dry turkey wearing
silly paper hat Christmas day. Smiling through noise
and depression whishing for a calm stable contented
animals at ease and no evil shall ever befall them.
Sigh, if the baby in the manger, no a grown man forever
thirty only knew what he started all those years ago.
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RICHARD SOFT HEART
Dark dank late October evening Richard stood on the other side
of the street facing the hotel where his wife had gone attending
a conference, saw his wife amongst other diners chatting and
looking radiant. This observed through a watery film he loved
his wife and feared that he might lose her in a business world
of silk suits and sophisticated men. Richard lit a cigarette usually
he only smoked when drinking coffee and he drank so much of
that brown liquid that his doctor had said that it might damage
the lining of his stomach and give him an ulcer. His wife was now
leaving the dinner table Richard rushed across the road and went
into the foyer, there were so many people milling about, but he
saw her going into as lift and it stopped at the seventh floor.
"Can I help you sir" the receptionist, "Coffee please" Richard said and sat
down not knowing what to do. If he took the lift up there
and it really was a conference he would embarrass his wife on
the other hand if she was there in a room with a lover he would
have lost her anyway. Eleven o'clock Richard was in no doubt he had lost her
to a richer world slowly got up and walked down to
the docks. Standing there at the edge of the pier a solitary figure
lost in unhappy thought didn't see how frivolous harbour light
danced on calmly heaving sea. As Richard turned to walk home
his foot got tangled in wire coil. as the conference ended and
his wife looked at her wristwatch thinking poor love he must be
worried by now, Richard fell backward into the sea.
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MY CARDIOLOGIST
The cardiologist Cohen Israel, his parents lacked fantasy,
had his office on the fifth floor in a building without a lift
was pacing up and down in his office he hadn't smoked
a cigarette for a week he dreamed of the open landscape
to sit on a horse smoke calmly and watch the sunset.
He opened the door and beckoned me in he was grumpy
I knew why and suppressed a giggle. Looking in his scanner
he nodded your heart is working normally now and not
galloping, here he stopped and thought of horses and
cigarettes, I mean it isn't racing like mad, I looked too and
my heart looked unromantically just like a pump not
unlike the one I use to get water up of the cistern. Told me
to take the tablets he had described and see him in two
month time. "And you Dr. Cohen any withdrawal symptoms?
"No, no not at all" he said looking away dreaming of sunsets.
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THE MOVIES
Late autumn, the day retired early night infiltrated
streets and bus shelters. Eight old men sat in my café
drank coffee and looked into their own mythical past.
As by a secret sign, they got up and filed out, curious
I followed and saw them walk to the harbour, down
a ramp where the ferry docked, and into the sea made
yellow by hazy lights. Back in the café, the waitress used
my phone, an old woman had stuck an ashtray into her
handbag, she doesn't smoke, it was for her father, she
said who used to smoke now, however he's cremated.
Later the men returned but they were shadows only I
could see and when a young generation of cinemagoers
came for coffee and talk about the movie they had seen
keeping my waitress busy and away from the phone,
the old men's presence faded and settled as dust on
windowsills.
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MOOSE
A long legged, non domestic cow peacefully
graced in the glade the forest's birds thrilled
and red squirrels played in three tops. Since
it was a warm day the cow swam in the lake
and later rubbed its behind up against an oak
A hunter, a sentimental, kind man took in this
scene of tranquillity before he cocked his gun
and shot the cow dead. Before taking out his
skinning knife he patted the cows head and
his eyes were moist.
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VIOLENT SILENCE
Broken windows, bottles smashed against
walls in drunken rouse, anger released for
now unable as he is to express what's in his
heart. A sea's pressure against a fragile dike
a flood of pain and self-hatred bursting forth
creating havoc and misery in its wake. His
own life wrecked, more than those he hurt whom
can start again. Thoughts unexpressed words
unspoken a dark silence waiting for violence.
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A SONG FOR A HOUSEWIFE
Oh wide hipped, heavy bosomed housewife carrier
of plastic bags and wearer of sensible shoes walking
down the street of life why can't I love you? Your
home is a furniture store, can't write my name on
any surface the mahogany cabinet proudly gleams
a polished brass key in its lock tells of cherished,
if useless, possessions. What a perfect widow you'll
be, putting my picture and the mantle-piece, dusting
me everyday and go on living as you always have
busy cleaning. something.
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DREAMING AN OCEAN
To see the sea again large drops of rain osculate
a whispering that falls on a foamy, green carpet.
When downpour stops my ocean is a mirror that
Reflects nothing but its own image.the sky. On
millions of illusions I shall forever sail. Sparkling
salt on a rusty deck, ocean's dust keeps my secret.
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DAYS OF SILENCE
My village is so quiet that I can hear flies talk mostly
they chatter about food, enormous predatory sparrows
and wars they wage against bees. A fly wrote a book on
the surface of my coffee table, thousands came and read
before the cleaner, with her yellow duster arrived.
The book's sagacity became part of dipterans collective
memories. Aware of their on worth they no longer buzz
softly in corners, turn their noses up when offered cow
dung, only a beer drinkers vomit, rancid butter and horse
manure will suffice. Oh dipterous, confident insect do
whatever you like, but don't crawl up a mule's nose,
wash your face in an open latrine and then leave tiny
pellets of excreta in the sugar bowl
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SAHARA
I've crossed life's Sahara, it took years and I'm now
returning to the point of my beginning. There are
dreams and beauty in sand dunes one day a stormy
ocean then a petrified sea. I avoided green oasis
a friend lost his camels there sits under a palm tree
and dreams of yesterday. I saw a ship sail upside
down across the horizon but that was long ago when
time could sing. The moon, over a forever moving
silence, belongs to the wanderer to us who saw its
wonder and found our way back home.
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A NIGHT
Police sirens tore into the night and darkness
undulated flooded shop entrances and yards
before settling back to a blank mirror. Stars
snowed in the outer galaxy, a few flakes fell
into the street and glowed on tar. Buildings'
eyelids opened looked out with disinterest,
went back to sleep again. Silence dripped on
roof tiles and kept the lonely awake
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AFTERNOON
In a twister of memories in a flow of loss,
fragments of a summer floats by its pieces
I try to assemble make picture of a puzzle
where your face is missing, But not your
fragrance. Was it a dream? Are you real?
Did I go wrong and missed my summer?
Are you an ideal I've yet to meet? It's late
I must find you now! Before my ship sets
sail on an ocean of dark mirrors.
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NEGLECT
I walk on a field abandoned thrown away, discarded
like a threadbare carpet. Brown earth with spots of
green where yellow plastic bags full of decay flaps in
the wind of discontent and beer cans rust. Broken
chairs a sad pram and a much loved upon mattress
that emits cries of life unborn. Here, there's no need
for me to wear a clown's mask, I'm alone and can lie
claim to this discarded earth as mine.
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ALMOST AFRICA
In the unregulated, uneven stony landscape around here
just before the dale ends in a nave a dried up little lake
looks lake in the evening haze like the African savannah.
The sun, sets early in December, but still manages to paint
the sky bloodthirsty crimson a colour that, if it appeared
on black asphalt near a smashed car would have looked
gruesome. For now everything is beautiful I see zebra and
gnu graze and in the tall grass yellow shadows of hunger
stretches and sonorously growl.
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THE GOOD LIFE
It's only a few days before Christmas and I have been sitting in
the sun on the roof terrace, it was too hot for my face and now
I'm going for a walk.the landscape is deep green here where
snowflakes hesitate to fall and only houses are painted white and
the lane I walk on is made of crushed seashells and yellow sand
that, when it has been raining smells of the oceans, an aroma
which never fails to lit a longing in me of the seas I shall not sail
again. Yet I'm contented now that I shall not be president, king
or dictator of anything or famously rich, I have a freedom they can
only dream of free as I'm to go and come as I please and never fear
an assassin's bullet. Ouch, a confused bee stung my hand it swells
up and throbs better ring a doctor if I can make it back to the house.
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WE ALL DESERVE A.
We all deserve a poem, not only the beautiful and roses. thieves, drunks,
prostitutes, clergymen and losers long
for beauty too, even if their idea of virtue might be a bit different from
yours. Like you they too wake up at four
in the morn and dread the void, the lack of faith and try
not to listen to the crying child, in the basement of their
mind. It's at that time bishops lose their faith in a loving,
God, they too deserve a poem when they feel like frauds,
for they have lost much more than you and ever will;
the devil took at their soul.
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TAPA BAR.
The black bull on a hillock moves and disappears
in Seville's shimmering heat. In a Tapa bar a young
would be Hemingway scribbles self consciously on
blue lined paper. A sober university professor from
Michigan? When a flat chested woman, with toreador
cape wrapped around her slender shoulders enters
he doesn't see her busy as he is writing about bull
fights he has yet to experience. She reeks of sin, blood, conquered men and
sawdust and is Christ's ultimate temptation.