The AucklandPoetry Chamber

AucklandPoetry.com presents Poet Resident JAN OSKAR HANSEN on http://OSKAR.AUCKLANDPOETRY.COM

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Friday, September 11, 2009

various poems 2

Tanka

Because of love
I became a bottle of rum
Mixed with cola
I can make you dance tango
And dream of Argentina



Tanka

In Buenos Aires
I bought an old circus horse
Pampas here we come
Large circles getting smaller
Cantinas and guitar music










Father...Dear!

When my children were small I played with them, I was
a good father, carried them on my shoulders, but when
they became teen agers and truculent I lost all interest in
their silly arguments, paid for their education and went
abroad to live in our second home in Spain.

My children never write or ring, their mother, who didn’t
come to live with me, says it is because I had forsaken
them. I paid for their university used my influence to get
them well paid jobs, yet they feel I should have done more
I think they should be ashamed of themselves.

It was me and my actions that made them independent
beings who can look after themselves; and I know after
I`m gone they will understand, I’m not the cuddling type,
but I made them whole; and yes, I think of them often,
love them very much, but will not seek their approval.

And if anyone of them read this and think the old man
has gone soft and send me letters of love I will, without
a second thought, tell them to piss off, my money will go
to my second family in Spain, I have young children here
and I carry them on my shoulders every day.














Our World Unseen


Late August it is getting a cooler I can sit outside now and
enjoy the afternoon sun. The night is calm the hot wind that
blew turning leaves into nasty daggers has ceased, the moon
is four days old, makes tired straw look golden and vital, like
they should be fodder for donkeys, but, alas, they have left
the Algarvian landscape; straw is for the wind to play with.
I once slept on a mattress filled with straw, yellow beautiful
and crinkly; mouse liked them too when April came around
the mattress was wafer thin and eleven mice had died, from
starvation. Man, whether he swats an insect or walks across
a field will always kill a life he didn’t know existed.






















The Theft



A big black bike, with frugal rubber tires
and an old fashioned handlebar,
is leaning against a whitewashed wall,
this morning.
Someone had nicked it on the way from
the bar last night:
so the thief lives in one of the stone cottages
around here.
The bike, it looks catholic,
isn’t telling,
made of hollow steel tubes, chains and rubber
it really doesn’t care who rides it.
It didn’t used to be like this, years ago
I often found a donkey grazing outside
the houses it seemed to be a normal thing,
friendly animals didn’t care who rode them;
nowadays if a tractor goes missing
...police and questions asked.
Me? I rather walk home from the bar.



















The Last One

Tall building afire, no exit
he fell and fell it only takes a few second
but also lasts forever.
The asphalt street became a river
of clear water he remembered from times past,
the woman in the car looked up and smiled
she had forgiven him.































The Mistress.

Mary Jo where are you know? Dusty bones in a cemetery?
A dashing man drove you through the night, over a bridge
that wasn’t there, into the water and then you were alone
breathing through pockets of air in the car, waiting for him
to come rescue you. Didn’t you hear his steps, on pebbly road,
as he was ran away? And your tears became the sea`s

Mary Jo I have not forgotten you, the man who betrayed
you is dead, they gave him a great send off, a president and
the great came to his wake, wonder if anyone thought of you?
Even your parents were paid off, not to talk of you in public.
Yet I do remember and think of you now the charming man,
the brother of brothers, has gone

















Bus 8

On the bus 8, to Garston I met my future wife I was going
to meet someone at the British Legion there, something
about a job on a ship. At an outdoor we bought cans of
coke and also bottle of rum, the job thing was forgotten
I thought she was the most understanding woman I had
ever met. A fortnight later we got married, people I didn’t
like much, brothers in laws, came to our reception.

Dreams never last, like a worker’s money, woke up one
morning; no smell of coffee from downstairs she had gone
out and left a note: “Get a Job!” Took a bus to Albert Dock,
a ship there, going to Murmansk, needed a cook I didn’t
hesitate, signed on, every morning made my own coffee
and everyone else’s. I would still like to know if she, when
coming back from Garston’s shopping centre, missed me.


















Working class poet


I feel I lack gravitas ought to write about the sorry state
of the world, wars, famine and so much killings.
When I read, say, how the Palestinians are treated, by, are
they Israelis or Jews? A primitive rage, mainly from injustices
of my own childhood, stirs but I will not let it come to the for lest
they will call me an anti Semite. I know about loss I’m the only
left standing, all my siblings died young. When you want to
be an artist and the teacher laughs, and say, go mend shoes
as your father did. I know how it feels like when a posh lady,
at a meeting, said when told I play golf; “Does He Play Golf?”

Well, actually no. I only played so I could piss into their
manmade lakes and pretend I was a lawyer. Yet, when
I remember the past I also recall sitting in a workman’s bus
when jokes had number so we didn’t have tell them, when
a bleak industrial landscape had a haunting, hazy beauty,
far removed from the bucolic one. Tired men going home
from their shift, sleep, but little else in the offing, and I see
survivors tucked into their elderliness with nothing else to
be proud of, they offer harsh critic of the young and make
their own passivity into a heroic struggle for justice













Mass Funeral


There had been so many deaths and funerals, when my
dog died they congregated and became one. Mother had
died the year before at Christmas, and since I could get
there before after the funeral I didn´t go.

My old dog had gotten on the railway tracks and when
the train came she was too old and slow to jump clear.
She was suddenly so heavy and there was blood dripping
in the back seat of the car. “Why didn’t you put her on
a blanket” People can be so smart. Heavy rainfall it was
a damp night, the vet didn’t do funereal, so I drove up to
the village where she was born got a spade from a farmer,
tried to dig a hole in hard soil; on my knees remembered
mother sister and brother and cried my heart out.

The farmer came, dug a hole put Bambi in it and covered
the hole with stones. On my way home the rain stopped,
moon was nearly full lit up the dirt road and I thought of
all the good times we had shared

















The Son

When I sit down to write I needn’t think if I`m
better then my father or, to torture myself, try
equalling him. My old man was a cobbler soling
old shoes and never wrote a thing, but he did
say funny things, over his lest. Customers laughed
but often failed to pay him.

His friends came, after five, “closed” sign hung
on the shop`s front door. Laughter and stories
told, often for many day. I can write without
the fear of being a lesser writer then him, yet it
nags me that I shall not be as good at telling
a story the way he could.
























A Sigh (Tanka)



A cape made of wool
Not for elegance but warmth
Oscar Wilde frowns
Woolly socks and winter boots
I`m a jobbing poet



The economy (Tanka)

As markets pick up
Petrol prizes are going up
Many cars are sold
New and bigger airports built
Global warming, be damned.















Senryu

As quiet rain fell.
In a pond ringed by quartz,
A modest swan swam


Senryu

A pale human swan,
Love poems and vitamin pills,
Sighs under eiderdown


Senryu

A moody cygnet,
In the calm river Avon,
Wants to be a tern.


Senryu

Like a wingless tern
A becalmed a schooner sways
In the bay of Bombay

(Ps. Tern is also a three masted schooner)













Tanka

My virtual friends
Clamour for my attention
Their unripe fondness
Turns my thoughts into triteness
Fit for facebook tedium.









Tanka

Up from deep thoughts,
What has been buried for years,
Comes stinking manure
But the forward thinking
Knows it is good for the roses.


























The Ageless Beauty

There is a mannequin,
in the dark corner of
the hall, showing off
a swimsuit 1950 style.

She is beautiful, in her
own eyes, which are
made of coloured glass
...sea green.

Dust on lips she doesn’t
care, not of the sultry
type, show no interest,
in sexual matters.

Spooks guests, when
they have gone she
smiles at her image
that is forever 1950.


















A Country Road

I sat on the milk-ramp by a road that had
yet to be covered in black, weird asphalt.
Sunday, the sky was eternally blue, could
when I stood up just, see the ocean it was
azure too. Fed up now, but I didn’t want
to leave before I had seen a drifting cloud
across the immaculate sky.

Saw a tall-ship cross the sea; for a time
it balanced on the horizon, sailed upside
down till it sank into a void. Fell asleep,
awoke just as the sun disappeared too;
a car stopped, driver offered me a lift,
but I imperially waved him off, wanted
to keep my reveries a little longer.





















Travel with Bambi

I was going to Seville, it’s not far an hour`s drive- I live
in the south of Portugal- had no one to look after my dog
she came along too. It was winter she sat inside the car
resting when I walked into galleries looking at paintings
visiting churches, yet keenly aware of her left in the car.

Guiltily bought a roasted chicken with chips, she ate it all
but what she really wanted was to go for a long walk.
Walked we did through roads no one knew existed, empty
houses broken down walls what history they held; the dog
was quiet but her little tail wagged.

We saw rats, cats and stray dogs which she quickly put
in their places; finely she was tired, I had lost my way let
her lead the way back to the car, where she curled up in
the back and snored. It was late I was hungry but could
only find a grotty pizza parlour still open.










Algarvian September (Tanka)

From the tallest tree
With pale bark and lucid leaves,
Dripped pure sunlight;
Birds bathed, streaks of sunbeams
Flew west as the day ebbed.




























Summer Sea.

A blue rowboat lies on its side, as a beached,
weak whale, its bottom has just been tarred
the aroma mingles with the ozone of the sea,
but when the tide comes the boat will float
and look refreshed.

Seen from the wooden pier the sea is emerald
yet crystal clear, small crabs and tiny fish feed
in the shallow, and as the sea calmly inhale and
exhale pebbles softly fizz.

The sky is the sea’s lover, they are doomed to
never embrace; no one around this morning,
the sea pulls me closer, captivating, it is hard to
resist -not to be absorbed by its beauty- and
become its prey.


















Snowman

I’m going to Sapporo next year to build a snowman
and win a prize, get my picture on the news and
be interviewed by David Frost.

I will not be arrogant and look down on ordinary
people, but everyone will notice that inner glow and
say: Truly there walks a famous, yet humble man.”

For I know, as you do, come spring my snowman will
melt, and only you admiration for the famous will
prevail, until someone builds a bigger snowman.




























The shyster

He was a charming young man I lent him money,
he never paid them back...disappeared.
Too smart and arrogant for his own good he ended
up in prison. When he came out he was bald and
obese I hardly recognized him. He walked past me
at the super market, I put my foot out he fell and
had nose bleed, staff came he said it was an accident
and he limped out. Never mind the money doesn’t
matter anymore, we are even now and will l leave him
In peace. He has a shop that sells handmade soap.
How do you test handmade a soap by washing your
face and if it foams it is ok? His father, a famous
musician, had spawned a futile son, in a way I’m glad
my dad was a common drunk.




















Leavings

On the railway platform, trains leaving, white
steam, suitcases and a throng of thousand eyes.
Worried humanity and relieved ones too; to be
free of oppression he is leaving to seek work far
from here. Men in uniform looking important
carrying green and red little flag, waving one of
them and blowing a whistle: All onboard!”

I dislike departures there is a change, nothing
will ever be the same. People walking home in
silence, words have lost meanings. lies have
been told dignity and pride have been sacrificed
in the quest to look happy; the night is endless
full of unanswered questions that streaks through
the night avoiding answers

























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 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.



















Norwegian Poem

Stormy night lesser stars were torn off
their heavenly anchorage and splashed
into the ocean, spindrift, ships ran on to
reefs and in the Ragnarock human voices
went unheard and sailor died in silence.
Black sky stars retreated into the safety
of the galaxy, the moon and sun too and
the winter night was endless, and a hush
fell on earth that looked like a snowball
on a slag heap till spring came and sheep
fearlessly grazed on steep hills fazing
the western seas on grass fertilized by
the futile hollering of bodies slashed to
fodder for crabs that grew big that year.

Ragnarock. “Doomsday”
























Vanishing Islands


Classic sea, almost antique, slow swinging oars
rowing towards a balmy island with lazy palm trees.
Everything could have been so perfect, hadn’t been
for the rising sea and the diminishing shoreline.
There is a smoking mountain in the middle of
the island, soon fishermen will sit on cliffs and be
anglers, sing song remembering times when their
island had a sandy beach; but for now oscillating oar
blade dips into liquid happiness, disturbing briefly
the azure sky that preens itself on an ocean it regards
as a mere mirror.






















Senryu

Perfect rose shivers
Fears being picked at dawn
And fade in a vase

Senryu

Perfect attraction
Breathless, ravenous sex
Some call it love


Senryu

Perfect marriage
One is fondly remembered
The other wears black

Monday, August 24, 2009

various poems

India by Chance.

India, Madras I think, our plane landed for refuelling, I was
member of a crew going to Japan to join a new ship, this was
seen as honour, although we were low paid, (it was easy to
fool us back then.) At a hotel near the airport we’re told to
stay in our air conditioned rooms that stank of air that had
gone through hundreds of travellers lungs. Wilful and bored
I broke rank, walked outside, got lost in the mêlée of poor
people and warm humanity. Drank tea in tiny shops and read
poetry I had hidden in my heart, away from sarcastic teachers
and mocking, giggling siblings. India has changed, so have I,
now it has the world biggest middle class, I read; but the poor
still sleep on pavements, drink tea and dream timidly of being
a part of new wondrous times, while half listening to the blind
storyteller’s yarn of yore.






















A Sonnet (San Suu Kyu)


Aung San Suu Kyu the fragrant daughter of a Burmese
general is a scented lovely lady. Four years ago when
she was 60 I wrote her a poem and it disappeared into
the www. It’s her dignity and silence I find compelling
I wouldn’t mind waking up in the morning and find her
face on the pillow beside me. Yes, I know call me what
ever you want, had she looked like Hillary Clinton, I
would have protested against 18 month house arrest
but my heart wouldn’t have been involved; now I feel
as I’m losing her forever and I will never meet her and
and say the three words I have waited so long to say.
She is a symbol of peace and democracy, ok so I leave
the politics up to you, all I want her to do is to see me
smile and recognize my love for her.
























Lost in Athens


Athens, confusing in August, what with the heat and pollution I had spent
the night sitting on a park bench, looking at a white wall lit up by moonlight,
waiting for a movie, any movie, to begin. Forenoon, staggered into a church,
joined a queue, a priest was handing out paper bags of sweet cakes, the old
lady behind got none since she had been in the line three times. I ate a cake
and gave the rest to the lady. Grateful she ate the cakes blew up the bag and
hit it against a tree and we were surrounded by an anti terrorist squad.
The lady, a known ,would be terrorist, had been blowing up paper bags all
over town, was arrested, they were going to arrest me too since I had supplied
the bag, but since I was a tourist they let me go with a warning.

Deep in the park I found a grotto, walked in and saw baby Jesus inside a small
aquarium, he appeared like a dead angel as painted by Caravaggio, his Jesus
opened his eyes smiled like, a street urchin selling himself to pederasts, and
began masturbating, chocked I took a step back and collided with two nuns who
laughed hysterically. Escaped, found a cellar bar drank ouzo served by a woman
who looked like a horse; she was a pony that had escaped from a Swedish circus.
We hit it off I have always been fond of horses, especially since according to an
Indian chief in, an Alice Walker’s poem I have forgotten the title of, who says
horses make the landscape more beautiful. Midnight she shut her bar, bareback
we rode through Athens mysterious night.












A Famous Garden


Montreal Gardens, tame nature we want it to be, a happy place
where nothing stings bees are friendly myopic insects.
How very nice it is, hedges cut to look like camels, animals made
of flowers, and ducks that forever are taking off as they too are
made of plant stuff and never crap on green grass.
I walk in a landscape untended by man, some trees are ugly and
some are beautiful; hedges are wild growing bushes with thorns
the size of tigers claws, rabbits, foxes and boars are made of flesh
and blood and many of them die come hunting time, but I would
not trade the Montreal Gardens or the Kew’s for the real thing,
a nature that makes no compromise; will not turn self into a sort
of middleclass gardeners’ dream of an adult’s Disney land.


























Dance Nocturne


August night is a hellhole, hot as the day and
wind that blows comes from a fiery furnace.
Open windows in dark interior primal the cry of
lovemaking, sounds like hate, and wrestling
sweaty, wriggling bodies produce a child that
soon will die, but first it has to go through the same
sick ritual as its parents, what we call love, but
is a primitive urge, copulation the planting of
a seedling before sinking back underground,
spent forgotten; in mass graves of boredom,
decorated with flowers that radiate the smell
of deaths to come. The Tasmanian tiger howls
to the moon, vanishes forever into an ancient
forest, but man dance and fuck the night away.


















Senryu

Armageddon has gone
When it arrived I slept
Did I miss much?






Tanka (without rules)

In US, the rich live long
The poor die young,
This is quite normal
Why should the haves feed
The not haves?

Tanka

White foam on azure sea
Spindrift, brother of the cloud
Spins a magic rug
On which we can forever fly
Till fairytales come true












September Rain (sonnet)


Most days, on my way to the bar or grocer`s
I walk past an old man who sits in the shade of
an oak, on a creaky sofa that has lost its place in
the lounge. I usually stop and talk to him, he can’t
remember me from one day to the next, tells me
the same story about his parents, and where he
grew up; Portugal of yore. He isn’t here today, only
the mantle, he wraps around himself when there
is a chill in the air, is flung on the old sofa; a zephyr
whispers that he will not be back. “Will I be that old?
I ask the waning sun. I sit on a sofa on the terrace,
a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, scan the sky,
in the vale where I live and my parents too lived,
we wait for September rain.






NHSIn Alexandria (US) I met a man by the docks
he had a grows in his stomach, belly full of
water, cancer, surgery acute. I tried to raise
some money managed only a lousy hundred
dollars in crumbled unwilling notes.

Saw the man again in a club, I was feeling
sorry for him. He hadn’t cheated me,
the money was not enough, so he spent them
drinking Ca champagne; died from an illness
he did, only money could cure.
















Erection

August heat I sent in a comment to an article in the Guardian,
dislike many of their readers, but it is a good paper, even if it
tends to lose its nerves and waffle a bit when the pressure is on.
I look to see if anything is written about lack of erection, not long
ago my member could carry a beach towel, a party trick for one
witness, now it will not even carry a paper napkin. I could write
and ask the woman who is married to a comedian and has a sexual
healing column in the Guardian, only I don`t like her much I think
she’s fraud; and the comedian she married stop being funny after
he dastardly divorced his first wife and married her. When working
class people are successful they tend to marry “up” that is because
they meet lots of new and well spoken people, who flatter them,
but they are wrong they will be sandpapered down lose their strength
to suit the middle class taste; rich they will be, so who cares?





















Lonely Is the Famous

Once I met Cliff Richard, he came into a newsagent’s
bought a paper, a broadsheet, perhaps that makes
him an intellectual, what do I know? He nodded my
way and smiled; mind, he smiled to everyone. He is
a professional showman for him smiling comes easy.
He had plenty of hair, slim, no unsightly beer belly like
me, and I felt a sense of envy till I noticed the cape of
loneliness he wore and wished I could help moderate
the desolation that dulled his eyes, when he briefly let
down his guard. Poor Cliff, sits at home, alone, sips his
own wine and dreams of happy holidays.






















August Tanka

Heat cracks the phone pole
Lost voices seep down as tears
But dries in the sun
White streaks of intense sorrow
A lover`s words go unheard.































The Successful Angler


By the river I sit a bamboo pole and wriggling
worms to thread on a hook, but I hadn’t got
around to it yet. I don’t like fishing, bloody trout.
why do they do they have to bite my hook?
I have to pull them out of the water wring their
neck and be a superman.

Others are amazed, wants to know my secret
But I have none. I let the wet worms escape in
the grass. Anglers are coming down to the brook,
I throw my bamboo into the water and escape;
fish eyes have been crowding my dreams too
long, I want to be free.






















Selling Poetry


Painting exhibition tonight a seven, I came before
the show they let me leave some poetry books
behind. “Just put them there”, a man said pointing
to a shelf, I will tend to your stuff later.” In the kitchen
a cook was making elegant canapés, hungry I left.

Next day`s paper said the exhibition it had been
a great success, I rang asked if any of my books had
been sold; they said some books had gone missing,
possible stolen, none had been sold though; grateful
for small mercies, I secretly thanked the thieves.























August Night


Black, starless late August sky, a sliver of moon,
golden scythe mowing down the old, harvest
time. They had forgotten to close windows and
chill will settle in old lungs, spitting of blood.

Church bells toll the day is hot and gives nothing
away, the old priest is still on holiday, the new
one is clumsy, hasn’t had a bath and a shave for
days; unspoken murmur of discontent.

The cleric sweats, there is a smell of brandy, one
of the church’s rejects? But they do take care of
their own. This isn’t swine flu, nothing to report,
just old people dying as they must.




















Tanka

Opened the curtain
Dawn’s light got stuck in my eyes
Intense brilliance
Furniture became the foe
Slept on the carpet till noon





Tanka (boredom?)

Lived in dad’s house
He had fled the August heat
I looked after it
Little to do, drank brandy
And dynamited his abode



















Friends

A black cat wears a fixed smile, watches
as an express train, that has no doors,
runs into a tunnel where concrete and
water fall from the ceiling.

It is very cold the cat wears a silk scarf
and its best friend is a tame shark, that
lives in a pond, is cold too; starves also
it has bitten off the hand of its feeder.

We, the smart people, avoid door-less
trains, we fly instead and, like donkeys,
suffer in silence the indignity of airports.
where stars are tinkling cell phones.

The black cat meows it sits in a shoe
made of tiger shark leather, feels comfy
since it is raining outside also a tad sad,
the shark used to be its best friend.



















Tanka

Because of love
I became an almond tree
Ugly in winters
Come spring I wear pink flowers
And strew them on your path

Monday, August 10, 2009

bank Robber

Bank Robber



A man, in a small Texan town, robbed its
only bank, then stuck his gun in his mouth
and took himself hostage. Outside, when
asked to free the hostage, he took the gun
out of his mouth to answer and was shot
dead by the sheriff.

senryu

Senryu

As a lone street lamp
Sways in wind and winter rain
A drunk, staggers home



Senryu

Yellow bellied moon
Timid hid behind a cloud
‘Cause an owl hooted.



Senryu

Fuming August sun
Feels bitterly let down
By life it created

senryu

Senryu

Destitute dog
Snoozes on the graveyard’s lawn
But leaves at sunset



Senryu

The Carob tree’s fruit
Strong elongated and black
Cotton pickers’ hands



Senryu

On a vacant beach
A bottle of suntan oil
Can be seen for miles

lovers lake

Lovers Lake (sonnet)


The lake we swam in was manmade, not a big lake
consisting mostly of rainwater, insipid to bathe in,
but it didn’t have unsafe undercurrents or unsavoury
things in its profundity. In May and June the tarn
was grey/blue but as summer lasted and little water
flowed into it, the mere turned muddy and by August
it was as brown as the leaves on the almond tree.
May is a good time to fall in love Trine and I used
to sit by the loch’s shore and talk about her future,
she had great plans that didn’t include me, but she
mysteriously vanished, gone overseas it was said.
Winters with no rain followed, the lake was reduced
to a hole in the ground and used as landfill; an odd
love story had come to an end under tons of debris.

Paratrooper

The Paratrooper

I was falling through air so dense I couldn’t see a thing, opened up
my big, black umbrella and descended in orderly fashion.
A scythe of a moon gave enough light so I could see the coastline
and the dark, menacing sea waiting to fill my lungs with water, but
by manipulating the umbrella I landed safely on the beach, folded
my collapsible canopy and got away as foam of greed tried to reach
me. To get home I had to walk through a mono cultural nightmare,
a forest of orange trees, every dismal plant the same height, dark
green and silent, they bore nothing but yellow fruit no one bothered
to pick since the land was drowning in sticky orange juice and no gin.
I was walking uphill now, downhill too but mostly up, from a hilltop
I could see my cottage; noticed light was on in the yard and in
The night air heard the desultory din of an airplane circling around
looking for a missing passenger.

Thursday, August 06, 2009

when lov e strikes

When Love Strikes.

It was a one sided love story naturally it pleased her to be adored
but it was not me she really wanted, I read in her smile and in
her loves sigh a story I was not a part of. And I was blind didn’t see
the subtle signs, the dreamy looks she had when she mention
another man’s name too often.

August moon at the marina, he was dressed in blazer and had a
a captain’s cap on, he looked dashing and asked me if he could
dance with her, they danced forever and I could see how happy
she was, there was plenty to drink and eat and fairy lights made
me quite dizzy and when dawn arrived I sat alone on a pollard
and saw the morning sun dance on calm water.

I had a long walk home and thought both of them had been quite
Dishonest and my anger and resentment swelled, but I could not
Help see her eyes had a shine of love, so I had to let it go

august Mood

August Mood

Rumours has it that she has died and
I have not the courage to go find out.
What I remember of her goes back
fifteen years and the world is no longer
the same; especially not here, in this
transient tourist place, where no one is
remembered long and misfits settle till
they find this place is no paradise and
seek other shores for their impossible
dreams. I will rest easy in my cowardice
and do nothing. but remember her and
a summer of yore.

various stuff

The Seeker


I saw a bushy tailed fox, running rabbits and
a boar in a bush landscape one can so easily
get lost in, I once did and panic stricken
stumbled about till I fell on to the main road.
I was looking for words or sentences, today
something that can make life easy, all I have
to do is to go home, write down what I have
found. Should I be so lucky!

There are many individual letters, strewn like
pebbles on my path, hang in trees like leaves
falling dawn in the wind. Clouds, on the blue
sky, made letters too, a B here and an A there,
saw a Q near the horizon; BAQ? Means little
to me, perhaps it is an Arab word for peace?
Struggled up a hill sun is heating up the day,
for lunch I’m having alphabet soup.



















Drones (wingless pilot)


Breakfast was served by a man without teeth when
he smiled and wished me good morning I thought of
burnt out villages in Afghanistan strafed by a drone
steered by a pilot who sits miles away; he presses
a button, blows up the cottage where the terrorist
lives with his family.

The guilty and blameless die together, it doesn’t
matter as long as the bad guy was taken out.
The drone’s pilot goes for his lunch in the air force
canteen; in the evening, after a day’s rebel hunting,
goes home make love to his wife and play video
games with his children.























One Man in a Boat

In a rowboat on the south Atlantic sea, a vast expanse
that appeared to slant downwards and towards Argentine.
A big, beautiful seabird sits at the bow watching me, dogs
can have kind eyes, never met a bird that has, and this
particular bird was dissecting me wanted to slurp my eyes
and wondered how my liver looked like, boozy if you ask
me. It’s getting dark I see a big liner- the birds sees it too
and flies off to a richer feeding ground -, lit up like fairies’
garden party, full of people who think they are audacious,
I hear dim echo of music the ship’s band plays a bordello
tango. If the ship’s radar sees me and I’m rescued the rich
and bored will have something to talk about, applaud her
captain and when the ship docks he will be given a medal,
his name and photo in the news, but will anyone bother to
ask what the hell I, all by myself, was doing in the middle of
the South Atlantic Sea?





















Senryu

An Agnostic’s nightmare
Wakes him up every night
He dreams god exist



Senryu

An orange tree
In an apple orchard
Isn’t overlooked


Senryu

Since giraffes have
Sixteen litre lung capacity
Let them sing opera


Senryu

Everyone loves
A lemon tree
In an apple orchard











Nature’s little Helper


Right there on the track, by my feet, a boa constrictor
was rolling around squishing a hare, it was not
a loving embrace. I stopped this murderous scene
and separated the two. The snake hissed balefully and
crawled into the bushes, the hare sat there stunned
not knowing if it was alive or dead. But something had
snapped in its head for it turned and attacked me; I had
to fight it off with my cane. The snake, the only witness
to my humiliation, decided I was a total idiot, it came
slithering back nabbed its prey and began crushing it to
death again. Wait there is more, an eagle swooped took
the snake, up in the air they all went, the snake had to
let go of the hare, which fell down in front of me; and
I, to avoid further indignity, killed it with my cane.






















Ornaments

A big stone under a carob tree, full of holes made
by winters rain, through some of the holes plants
with tiny red flowers grew. Partly in the shade but
sunlight filtered through leaves; beings made of
day and night, danced a sinful tango on the stone.
I look around want to share this moment, but I’m
stubbornly alone, except for the carrion that flies
above me, it waits for me to stumble, fall or get
lost in the arid landscape. A work of art wanted to
take it home, the stone was too heavy and, anyway,
I could not recreate the dancing; I left it for other
walkers to find, admire the stone, but not taking it
away thinking it would look nice as an ornament in
the garden.

























Senryu

Is verbal parsimony
Masquerading as haiku
Vacant poetry?


Senryu

Is, in pale moonlight,
Lilies in the garden pond
Ghosts of sailors past?


Senryu

The depraved rose
That shines on a man’s lapel
Is cast off’s at dawn.















Tanka

If you see the poor
In your leafy neighbourhood
Buy them a bus-ticket
So they can see our great land
And settle somewhere else.



Senryu

The demise’s grief... is
My total inability
To retell it

























Bio

Jan Oskar Hansen is a Norwegian, but not a Norwegian poet.
he has written several collections and his poems appear in
many anthologies. Mr. Hansen has written all his work using
English words and has ended up with a language which has
The flavour of the language used and how it echoed in
narrow street and up unpainted factory walls of his youth
Mr. Hansen has no poet who was his ideal, except Hemingway
and he wasn’t a poet, so his work only echo his own thought
and he has never attempted to belong to any school or style
of writing . When you read his work you will find his grammar
and syntax different from what you are used to, but when
you realise that no attempt has been sought to please you,
I think you will enjoy his work

likely

A Likely Story

She was a swan the way she tackled the swells whether on
Atlantic Sea or the Pacific Ocean, alas she was old had seen her
best days, but she was nicely painted and for us she was home.
Wouldn’t that be a nice story to tell? The owner didn’t want to
spend money crewing her, what we got were harbour rats, and
her officers had gone all the way down from new ships, to this
last chance saloon. Tired men, no way back, fuck this job up and
there is only the cold sea; so we struggled from one obscure
port to the next often in a mist of rum. Seafarer, of the fairy isle,
close your cabin door, bow your head and cry.

Yes, she was our home which we also shared with five million
cockroaches and no money for insect spray; keep the light on
man, they only crawl over you face and up your nose in the dark;
and then she was sold to the Greeks and we’re made homeless.
On the docks of Piraeus a group of men with quivering hands,
old fashioned suitcases, and suits in need of a dry cleaner, what
now my friends? Never saw them again, but when I opened my
suitcase at the B&B hotel two roaches had followed me ashore,
they were alive and quickly found dark corners, like me they had
voyages the seven oceans and lived to tell a tale.

assertivesness

Assertiveness

It is very hot I have switched off the air-condition and
opened up windows, it is supposed to be hot in July.
I hadn’t wanted to buy air- cooling in the first place,
I’m too placid and get swayed to do the wrong things.
I sit on the terrace in a plastic chair that is easy to
move around I used to have had a chair of real wood
before I liked more, but it was given to someone poor;
I think about it and get upset I ought to put my foot
down and say: No! Summers past I sat in my heavy
timber chair and smoked my cigarettes, the burn kept
mosquitoes away, now it is frown upon and I dastardly
quit, but I do have a packet of fags in the desk drawer;
maybe if I get pissed off enough by the virtuous, I’ll lit
up and enjoy my August nights.

senryu

Senryu

Slept all night
Long dreamless hours
I feel cheated


Senryu

For my roses
Mild precipitation
Is liquid love



Senryu

After the cremation
We smoked cigarettes
Smoulder and ash.


Senryu

Uniform orange plants
In a Florida orchard camp
Covet lemon trees

a summer night

A Summer Night.


A Bergman movie had an old man running in
the hall senseless, gripped by an irrational fear
of death. I sat by the bed pearls of sweat ran
down my butter coloured body, summer, but
all can hear is the ticking of the kitchen clock.
To witness a day’s passing gave me no pleasure
this insistent march towards timelessness and
there is nothing to hold on, a moment’s respite,
or love to assuage the vortex’s relentless terror.
Dog awakes, hears steps too light for my ears,
a night visitor and I’m alone and without a god.
No, not here, the cur loses interest goes back to
sleep. Night is an enemy; the shift is nearly over,
I walk out on the terrace and wait for the day.

a village in Iberia

A Village in Iberia


Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.

This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?

“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else?”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I need of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.

the cruise

The Cruise

At a corner, in the inner harbour where unseemly debris
tend to float about, three men- in a rowing boat- sit and
drink beer. It is a lovely summer evening they fall asleep.
In the morning there are only two of them the third must
have gone home. The two agree that their friend was old
so they go ashore with the empty crate of beer and buy
some more beer. Midsummer now and it is good to sit in
boats, with a friend drink beer and talk about old days.

Daybreak, only one man left in the boat, the lone one
shrugs, his friends have no stamina so he lugs the empty
crate of beer for refill to the shop. This summer is endless,
the weather holds and a boy spots a rowing boat with no
one onboard except an empty crate of ale which he takes
to the shop and sell. At the bottom of the sea, in the inner
harbour where unseemly debris tend float, three old men
sway in the sea’s gentle heave in an everlasting summer.

Friday, July 24, 2009

the huntsman

The Huntsman


Today I saw a bushy tailed fox, running rabbits
and a boar in a bush landscape one can so
easily get lost in, I once did and panic stricken
stumbled about till I fell on to the main road.
Today I was looking for words or sentences,
something that would make life easy, all I had
to do was to go home and write down what
I had found. Should I be so lucky!

There were many individual letters, strewn like
pebbles on my path, hanging in tree like leaves
and falling dawn in the wind. Clouds on the sky
too made letters, a B here and an A there, I even
saw a Q near the horizon; BAQ? Means nothing
to me, perhaps it is an Arab word for peace?
I struggled up a hill sun was heating up the day,
for lunch I’m having alphabet soup.

a likely story

A Likely Story

She was a swan the way she tackled the swells whether on
Atlantic Sea or the Pacific Ocean, alas she was old had seen her
best days, but she was nicely painted and for us she was home.
Wouldn’t that be a nice story to tell? The owner didn’t want to
spend money crewing her, what we got were harbour rats, and
her officers had gone all the way down from new ships, to this
last chance saloon. Tired men, no way back, fuck this job up and
there is only the cold sea; so we struggled from one obscure
port to the next often in a mist of rum. Seafarer, of the fairy isle,
close your cabin door, bow your head and cry.

Yes, she was our home which we also shared with five million
cockroaches and no money for insect spray; keep the light on
man, they only crawl over you face and up your nose in the dark;
and then she was sold to the Greeks and we’re made homeless.
On the docks of Piraeus a group of men with quivering hands,
old fashioned suitcases, and suits in need of a dry cleaner, what
now my friends? Never saw them again, but when I opened my
suitcase at the B&B hotel two roaches had followed me ashore,
they were alive and quickly found dark corners, like me they had
voyages the seven oceans and lived to tell a tale.

tanka

Tanka (The Eclipse)

Cycling in Chennai
The day turned into night
And I was fined
Had no light on my bike
And collided with a rickshaw








Tanka (memory)

I saw Jack Dempsey
Outside radio music hall
Year 1957
He looked a true hero
And I loved America

senryu

Senryu

If I saw everything
There would be no mystery
Just endless ennui


Senryu

The August moon
Stole a kiss from cold blue lips
At Necropolis

Senryu

Tango conquest
Pointless subjugation
To bordello music

the gallery owner

The Gallery Owner

He had been to the doctors
nothing could be done, they are
not magicians and he had
a painting exhibition at his
gallery tonight.

Sat in his chair leaning left,
less pain that way, some thought
he had had too much to drink.

In the night he was saved
from further agony,
a sudden heart attack.

Many people came to his
funereal, a lyrical lady singer
sang about love and loss;
there were tears;

...and then the silence began.

asseertiveness

Assertiveness

It is very hot I have switched off the air-condition and
opened up windows, it is supposed to be hot in July.
I hadn’t wanted to buy air- cooling in the first place,
I’m too placid and get swayed to do the wrong things.
I sit on the terrace in a plastic chair that is easy to
move around I used to have had a chair of real wood
before I liked more, but it was given to someone poor;
I think about it and get upset I ought to put my foot
down and say: No! Summers past I sat in my heavy
timber chair and smoked my cigarettes, the burn kept
mosquitoes away, now it is frown upon and I dastardly
quit, but I do have a packet of fags in the desk drawer;
maybe if I get pissed off enough by the virtuous, I’ll lit
up and enjoy my August nights.

senryu

Senryu

Slept all night
Long dreamless hours
I feel cheated


Senryu

For my roses
Mild precipitation
Is liquid love



Senryu

After the cremation
We smoked cigarettes
Smoulder and ash.


Senryu

Uniform orange plants
In a Florida orchard camp
Covet lemon trees