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

Thursday, May 31, 2007

What is haiku

What is Haiku?

A handful of water,
Infused by sunlight as it
Trickles back to the sea,
Is a haiku

the Omen

The Omen

On the red painted
Japanese wooden bridge
spanning the park’s lake,
we stood looking down
into the water seeing our
reflections.

I dropped a penny into
the lake, for luck I think,
our reflections fragmented
into a thousand bits

This worried us pale,
till the water was still and
we could see ourselves
again, with hands entwined.

young desire

Young Desire.


The maid came out of the barn in
her strong hand she carried a ewer
of creamy milk, she offered it to
me, and I drank till un-thirsty.

She was a big woman, blond and
blue eyed, a Valkyrian, a servant
of Odin, I loved her madly with
all my, adolescent, heart.

Read a promise in her eyes, and in
the light hue of blush in her cheeks;
I just had to grow a bit taller and be
Her unafraid, heroic Viking

haiku

Haiku

The moon
Is too self-effacing
To appear nightly


Sunlight
On wax roses
Melt down


The sun
Erases a melancholic
Rainbow

Eden abandoned

Eden Abandoned.

In the big house, where an old lady lives alone,
there are, in rooms and under apple trees, subtle
shades of melancholy, an echoes of whispering,
piano music and laughter; on the tennis court,
lost to weed, the eternal survivors, a twang as
a rackets hits its flying target.

Then death came into Paradise, fiscal collapse
and a suicide, the wroth of time; as autumn
leaves a clan dispersed, blew wherever the wind
took them. Forever exiled, stuck in old dreams,
only the old lady was steadfast, a focal point in
their collective nostalgia

Haifa Oranges

Haifa Oranges.

I bought oranges in Haifa, for the ship’s crew
those on top of the crate were juicy, those
lower down were well passed sell- by- date.
No point complaining, brown eyes would ice
up, noses wrinkle in contempt, menace in
the air, stop! The unsaid word is an elephant
in the room.

My will was weak, anchored in the bay
the air force had been playing war games,
diving down to the ship before flattening
out, the roar stunned us into incoherence,
great fun for some; no point complaining
though, no one listened, we’re victims of
a land gripped by the delirium of power

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

appreciating nature

Appreciating Nature

Only man appreciate nature,
what does a camel or a donkey
know about beauty? If a camel
has got sand under its hooves,
coarse grass and thorny bushes
to chew it doesn’t look misty
eyed when sun sets and sighs.
Likewise the donkey, soft grass
and black ploughed soil to walk
on, and a shady carob tree to rest
under, it doesn’t turn to a jenny
and say: “Isn’t a beautiful day?”

my twin

My Twin

She was there again last night, knocking on
the door of my consciousness wanting to be
real, a part of my life, but I coldly refuse my
twin, a girl unborn

In my masculine world there is no place for
femininity, see my bulging arms and six pack,
should I prance around like a girl and cry
when watching a sentimental movie?

No there is no place for her in my body, or
mind, but I do borrow her sad smile when
writing poetry; together, with my relentless
guilt, we are on to something fine.

the afternoon sky

The Afternoon Sky

Driving home, the sun was setting, when I saw the big
wound on the sky; it bled, a large blob landed in front
of the car and exploded into a million rubies.
I had a plastic shopping bag in the car, for occasions
like this, began picking them up, when I saw hundreds
of grey donkeys gliding out from the harsh landscape
of thorny bushes and crippled trees, they were the soul
of beasts that had tilled this land only to see their labour
come to nothing, now they wanted to be paid, if needed
in solidified blood from a mortally hurt sky.

I dropped the bag and fled to the car, pondered my next
move when there was a knock on the window: “Are you
ok sir?” “Sure, why shouldn’t I be! “Move on then,
you’re holding up the traffic.”

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

the secret

The Secret.

Walked passed the field, where eight sheep
grazed, on my way to woods- I was awed by
this timeless scene, this rustic idyll;

the sheep looked at me with total disinterest,
and that was ok, I wasn’t talking to them;
not without mint sauce.

In the tarn, deep in the woods, I swam with
an inland mermaid, later we sat on a rock,
she, she was bronzed and looked famous.

On my way, back from the tryst, the sheep
were gone, only a pair of mules; and blood
glinted on verdant grass and drooling lips

The mules looked at me as to say: “Well,
so we are all depraved, we eat raw sheep
and you sleep with a fish.”

girl in park

Girl In Park.

She sat there on a bench, the wench
An empty plastic bag and a mobile
Phone that didn’t, ring by her side,
Hot her feet, she had danced to five,
Many kisses but now her sailor had
Left and she had waved good by and
Cried as his ship sailed down Hudson
River. All she wanted now was for
Him to ring and say he loved her,
Before going home to her mum to
Tell her that she was engaged to get
Married to a sailor.

haiku

Haiku.

Poland, rid of commies
They have been replaced
By fascists

the parade

The Parade.

The fire fighters in my village were on
parade, shiny helmets, polished axes
made them look like roman centurions,
in modern uniforms.

A minister, in Armani suit, had come
from the metropolitan to tell them how
wonderful they were; chests, heads and
stomachs swelled

When the minister had gone back to
the big city, there was a grand party,
at the station, Chiefs and Indians; lucky
there wasn’t a fire that night.

Monday, May 28, 2007

In Pastel colurs

In Pastel colours

I wonder if Rick, in Casablanca, reopened his bar, or did
he go back to the states, getting married, settling down as
a scriptwriter in Hollywood? “You must remember this,
a kiss….”Or a writer of sad poems where everyone dies
before getting a chance to be happy

I was in Casablanca once, didn’t find Rick’s place though,
mind it could have changed name, none of the natives had
heard of it; so I bought a pair of leather slippers and a fez,
sat in a bar, drank brandy, fell asleep and someone stole
my Moroccan hand made slippers.

Think I suffered an attack of too much reality, why can’t
places be as interesting, as they are on the screen, it can’t
be that hard to have a couple of nazi hooligans, walking
about, say, in Casablanca. Hang on! Why did Rick open
a bar in a Moslem country?

Mind you, old Nazis are being rehabilitated now Estonians,
who fought in the nazi army against Soviet Russia, are
getting medals. Holocaust is pure cant, told by prisoners who
didn’t like boiled codfish and potatoes served more than twice
a week. So, who’ got problem with reality then?

Friday, May 25, 2007

Fortunate Jim

Fortunate Jim

Jim, the cook, son of a lord it was rumoured,
the Polish master mariner, Joseph, said Jim
was lucky man, brought fair wind and weather,
wanted him on his ship sailing to the Far East
and up festering rivers. But in warm Singapore
Jim had an attack of epiphany, saw everything
so clearly that he borrowed a typewriter from
the Anglican vicar, and wrote a novel. Joseph,
Polish mariner, not only lost his cook, he also
lost his ship up Mekong River.

Neglect

Neglect

A Hudson River dockland that had seen busier time,
empty warehouses and closed factories, business
had moved elsewhere, I can’t remember why we
had docked there, perhaps as a punishment, but
guess we’re waiting for orders; so time was spent
painting the ship’s sides. A deckhand went missing
it was assumed he had gone ashore for a beer.

The river police found him next day, further down
the river under a wooded pier; odd no one heard him
fall, no splash, just silently falling into oblivion.
Eighteen, still a boy, met his mother when I got home,
told her how good he had been, well brought up boy,
it pleased her; she looked so very young herself, so
I took her out for dinner, and that dried her tears

m/s Kari

M/S “Kari” (And her Captain)

Loading coal in Norfolk, mined by Polish Americans and
Charles Bronson, destined for Antwerp, The winter raged
against the coming of spring, our captain, sensibly, let his
ship ride the waves, up steep, mountain slopes down dark
gullies. Silence as storm and ship fought a mortal battle.
The storm lost; another battle won, by the old girl, four
ships had sunk in the same waters, we’re proud of her and
of Captain Olsen, but we never told him so. M/S “Kari”
rode the sea as a swan; it was her last battle, sold for scrap
iron and made into millions of coffin nails. Captain Olsen,
the great seafarer, was retired; land life didn’t suit him,
drowned in his own vomit. I can only hope that a some of
Kari’s nails were used on his coffin to make up for flowers
no one sent.

only a train raide away

Only a Train Ride Away.

They knew her well at the railway station in the little,
Soulless coastal town of Peru, her father had been
A train conductor, she had a picture of him in full
Uniform, yet I sensed they were mocking her naivety
And as a slayer of hopeless causes I came to her
Rescue. She told me of her plan to become a Parisian
Model, alas, over thirty and with a broad Indian face,
Her train had come and gone, all she needed was
A little money for the ticket getting there, so I gave
Her some, this made her so happy that she invited me
For a meal at a restaurant, and she blew it all.
It was morning when I left her modest flat, from her
Window I could see my ship and I promised to wave
When we sailed, on the day the Pacific smiled.

daybreak at sea

Daybreak at Sea.

Morning on the deck of another old tub
lumbering her way across the Pacific Ocean
bound for Japan

The deck is damp from night rain, the sun
has begun its rise again and the sea glitters
of old gold ducats

Just me and the seascape, we are as one,
peace settles over me, it’s good to know
I’m a part of this.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Wine & women

Wine & Women

In a little Spanish town
by the sunny coast
there was a Ferris wheel
and a carousel,
near the docks.
We sat holding hands
telling lies, and drinking cola,
through a straw when her
father came, dragged her
away by her hair dark,
shiny hair
Cowardly,
I did nothing,
to make matters worse
I drank the cola she had
L eft behind;
came onboard,
midnight and told
another lie

A seafarers life

A Seafarers Life.


So, how does it go? Ship ahoy sailor boy? I was going to write
from my life at sea, of salt water and romance in tropical nights,
but I can only remember, the old seafarers, who had no other
home than the temporary shelter a cabin on a ship gave.

Ashore they stayed in boarding houses walked up and down
streets, the sporadic service of a prostitute, sitting in bars till
money got short, in a way they were old lags, institutionalized,
fearful of double-crossing people wearing shark smiles

Life had sailed them by, only with a deck under their feet
did they feel at home. There was a deep sadness about
them, a greatcoat of loneliness only love could penetrate,
but where they walked and lived there was none to be had.

So tell me old boy was it in Le Havre or in Singapore that
you met a girl you can’t get out of your mind, the one who
smiled in a way, making you feel special. Do tell us, dear boy,
and let’s pretend she was more than just another slag in a bar.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Tha's how it is

That’s How It Is

The sand, in the corner of the lane
where I used to draw battle plans
for Cesar and his generals,
has blown away; and so have they
and their legions.

Recently a roman soldier’s grave
was found, a broken skull, jawbone
and a broken front tooth,
Viva la Mort! A French legionnaire
before shooting his dentist.

the awakening

(The Awakening)

Saw her every day at the outskirt of the town
when delivering newspapers,
she was tall, dark, intense eyes, walking
hand in hand with her daughter,
who, at fifteen, was pale imitation of her mother

From Romania, people said, the president there
had shot her husband dead, and thrown him
down a borehole, band her from returning, maybe
she and her daughter were spies.

Dreamed of the woman… often, we did things
that made me blush when daylight came,
I was sure she was a witch…those eyes. you see,
so deep! So foreign! So sexy!

One day she flashed me a knowing smile,
I blushed and fell off my bike, she knew!
My shame was total;
yet, to my despair she appeared in my
dreams again, the hussy

Suddenly April and they had vanished,
flown away like malevolent, swarthy, ghosts
that had no business being here, in a Nordic spring;
and my femme fatal faded from my…
disgraceful dreams

Replaced by the girl in the cake shop she was
safely local, wore braces on her teeth, and
sometimes gave me an extra coco macron,
our relationship was
… strictly chaste

a good word for supermarkets

A good word for Supermarkets

There were many grocers’, in my locality, in
the late fifties - when I was a boy- I disliked
them all. Hand rubbing, oily, shopkeepers had
dirty fingernails, cut slices of salami, cheese &
ham, not above resting a finger on the weight.
But we needed them, gave us credit when we
couldn’t pay, and adding a few cents to cost.

The butcher was a swine, lewd eyes and slimy
smile, mother said that some women sold
themselves, to him, for a pound of pork chops;
she never explained what that entailed, guessed
they had to do his washing and shine his shoes.
It was said, if dogs or cats came near his shop
they ended up as mince meat

Time got better there was work for all, factories
hummed with human activities, and one day
a supermarket opened in the centre of the town.
An Aladdin’s cave, we’re there every Saturday-
it had a café as well- our weekly treat. Small
shops s sank into despair, faded away, no one
sent them flowers; and that was a shame.

a widow and a priest

A Widow and a Priest.

It was six in the morning I was on the roof terrace
smoking an illicit cigarette when the ambulance came
gliding into the hamlet, stopped outside Antonio’s
house and carried him out on a stretcher, his wife
came along too; Antonio saw me and feebly waved.
In the forenoon his wife was a widow and she cried.
The house was suddenly full of relative, most of them
women. Funereal at five that day, the widow had been
astute enough to have everything arranged beforehand,
his body was now in the church…waiting

At the graveside the priest said the usual thing, shook
hands with the widow and walked home alone, feeling
friendless, he didn’t think of the funereal, had seen so
many dead faces ravaged by age or sickness, immune
he had become, not so when young laying awake at
night thinking about it horror struck; he had served
here for years now waiting for a new call or an advance
within the hierarchy, feeling forsaken by the Vatican,
hadn’t he written learned articles about the philosophy
faiths and received a thank you note from the cardinal?
Nothing more he could do, couldn’t very well ask god.
At home his housekeeper served him a roast chicken
and cellar cold red-wine; he sighed, tucked in, death
always made him hungry.

Female relatives stayed with the bereaved for a week,
men are curiously absent on these occasions, then they
went back to their own worries, the widow began her
new life by going to the hairdresser

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Beirut 2007-30bc

Beirut 2007…30 BC.
As seen by an old Arab.

I saw in Beirut in 1958 when
Arabic princesses walked in the street
of peace in all their finery,
free of the restricting veil,
but with a train of
burka dressed, chattering servants
behind them

I still remember their dark,
mysterious eyes, mind in those days
all women
were mysterious to me and
the Mediterranean, infant blue, looked
on with benign disinterest

Now in May and far away
from Beirut, I see there is trouble once again,
rocket hits buildings flying concrete
and the sound of machine gun fire.
So what’s new?

Not much, since you have
the impunity to ask,
the Mediterranean has seen it all before
only now it’s eyes are milky blue,
and she’s too old to be whore:
for the trouble maker who returned,
to these shores;

those clever alchemists who
turn words into fools’ gold, and let you
believe that they are chosen by
an abstract god, to bring harmony.

This time they can not be exiled they have
found a strong ally which they eat up from the inside
till they can declared masters of the world
by irrational Christians; and we will suffer their
revenge till their greed and capacity for double dealing
begin to kill one another,
and we shall be free and we will re-remember our
our glorious past.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Fun of the fair

Fun at the Fair.

We have
gone home
from the fair,
men,
in overalls,
are
dismantling
the Farris-wheel.

Torn papers
and
dust fly
in the wind,
dogs have
a good time
finding
food to eat.

If you listen
the sound
of collective
fun
still echoes
in the air

Friends

Friends.

The captain and I sat in a café
he had been fired for being nearsighted
I for only knowing how to cook
Irish stew, which was odd since
I’m not Irish


The captain had been offered a job
on a Panamanian ship, they don’t
mind if the captain is a bit blind as
long as he can navigate.


The captain was sad, there was no
job for me on his ship, he had bought
me a cookbook and promised to ring
as soon there is a vacancy

Cabo da Roca

Cabo da Roca


At the most southerly cape in Portugal
I was looking out to sea that was calm,
green and had sheets of sunlight on on,

I could see ship vanishing at the horizon,
tipping over and falling down to the east
coast of the Americas.

Last time here, was on the rusty deck of
a ship that slowly made her way from port
while dreaming a vacation in a dry dock,

As the Irish stew, in the galley, brewed
I was dreaming of a modest whitewashed
house in a vale far from the sea

a name

A Name.

How abstract time is,
yet it ages me…
and her.
Wonder what she looks
like now?

Her name,
my dearest love,
is the only one
I remember now.
loves since, were
only an attempt
to recapture
the lost.

When moon
is full
I wonder
why this,
your hold on
my affection.
never eases

Friday, May 18, 2007

The bay of Cascais

The Bay of Cascais

Her mother was
in a hole in
the wall
with a glass door,
there was dust on
the brown coffin
and on
the wax flowers;
the frame,
on her
mother picture,
was rusty.

While she
cleaned and
prayed
I looked out at
the bay
it was serene,
shrouded
in a blue miasma.
keeping
the secret of
eternal life
to itself.

unlucky man

Unlucky Man

Alfred,
the ship cook,
who had
survived
the war and
torpedoes,
fell overboard
a velvety
Caribbean
night;

swam till
dawn and
saw
a tiny island,
heard
calypso music;
crawled ashore,
alas
as he did so,
was hit
by a frozen
lump
of shit
released from
a plane;

his family,
was
told
the truth,
but
preferred
to say that
he was
lost at sea.

Transience

Transience.

Tropical morning, it had rained in
the night and streets looked bright,
soon it will be very hot and a throng
of busy people would be milling about
trying to make a dollar and there wasn’t
enough of the stuff to go around.

I had spent the night in an air- condition
hotel room, my normal home was a small
cabin on an old tramp ship that should
have been sold for scrap years ago, but she
was chartered by a Japanese company
for anther two years

The girl who had shared my bed lived in
a shanty town, for her too this was a novelty;
she had wanted me to have breakfast with her,
my god! Did she think was the captain?
I’m the cook, had to be onboard and cater for
a sullen crew, if lucky I would finish work
about seven at night.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Rural god

Rural God.


God and his donkey came walking into
the village in the forenoon,
he was selling lemons, big juicy yellow
ones, I bought two

“Say, lemon man,” I said,
(wasn’t going to blow his disguise)
“wouldn’t you make more money
selling your lemons in a town?”

“Nope, people there have lost touch with
the land, they don’t know what
lemon looks like, but there’s
a man there, you might have seen him,
he’s got a limp, who sells artificial lemon juice,
he has taken all my costumers,
it’s only the old people in the village
who buy my lemons now.
Here have another one… it’s free.”

Unbecoming laughter

Unbecoming Laughter

All that expensive
white marble at the cemetery
blinded me,
another long time friend
had stopped smoking,
I stumbled and fell into
a newly dug hole.

I had looked at the bay
it looked so peaceful,
my friend had been an eager
sailor.

Mind, only my pride
was hurt, so
terrible embarrassing.


Later, around my
friend’s coffin,
mourners had mirth
in eyes that should have
been filled with tears.

the persian Carpet

The Persian Carpet

I bought a small carpet
from a man at the market,
I wasn’t going to,
but when I asked him
to reduce the price,
he shouted at me and the world,
said it was Persian,
so I hastily took it.

Rolled it out it in the hall,
switched the light on,
nothing and remembered
I had gone to town
to buy a light bulb

Later, when my wife
came home from work
she slipped on the carpet
and broke a leg.

Intermezzo

Intermezzo (nightlife)

The café was empty
safe for an old whore
eating chicken & chips and
drinking a litre carafe of
house wine,
I had borrowed her
newspaper and since
I wasn’t a client
she didn’t embarrass
by trying to be sexy.

An extreme gay, black man
entered,
clowned about a bit,
asked me for a beer,
I gave him an imperial,
and he made silly walks
talked non stops,
became tiring,
the owner told
him to leave

The woman and I left
together, the owner
closed his café
for the night, I just
happen to turn around and
saw him letting in the gay
man again.

“They have been lovers,
on and off, for
years”, the woman said

Rendezvous

Rendezvous

Warm August day,
a man in a grey suit and hat
stood outside a bookshop
reading titles, and
smoking a cigarette.
A woman dressed in
a long, dark frock,
low heeled shoes and hat,
came up and tapped him
on his shoulder,
they briefly kissed,
walked off
didn’t hold hands;
first I speculated
if they were discreet
English lovers
but those shoes!
Must be a long time married
couple

the great betrayal

The Great Betrayal

Sat on his left side for years, I, a man of peace. Yet
I sat in a war cabinet four times; loyalty, there isn’t
much of it anymore.

People near him, write diaries,
skewed to make themselves look grand; and they will
tell the world, they disagreed, did their best, but alas,
…failed.

Nice middleclass words, soothing, oh yes, we do
understand, it has been lovely time sniffing
the aphrodisiac of power; dizzying height, forget
that you are gong to fall one day.

Thick and thin I stood firm, he needed me, trusted me,
knew I would never let him down.

When I knew he had betrayed the working class
I did not cry bur joked; great time, they have pills
of every kind, me I settle for a bottle of red wine.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

The Gypsy woman

The Gypsy Woman

When I left the supermarket she sat in the shade
under the balustrades her skeletal hand cupped
and outstretched, too tired for words; usually
I gave her the change I had in my pocket, but
that day I had none. She kept sitting there to
nightfall, till the supermarket closed; chilly night
even, though it was May. In the morning they
found her dead, leaning against the edifice of
plenty and no one knew her name; feather light
her corps, had it been a windy day, it might have
blown away. Roma, this cursed race doomed to
wander across foreign fields and often hanged.
Sing a sad song for me Gypsy, tell me why they
hate you so and why you can’t return to El Rocio

the swimming pool

The Swimming Poo

The illness of the mind had wasted his is body, no longer
the man who had been her husband for forty years, lately
he had gone violent struck her a few times and crying in
fits of impotent rages.

She couldn’t cope anymore had contacted the nursing
home they were sending a car to fetch him later in the day.
She looked out, he was unsteady on his feet, like a drunk,
and near the swimming pool.

As he fell into it she looked away from the window, turned
the TV sound up high, she was hard of hearing, watched
a gardening program.

She found him floating face dawn about the same time as
the people from the nursing home came. Best that way,
they said, his suffering was over, but now, she wasn’t sure
whether he had fallen into the pool, or thrown himself into
it in a moment of clarity

the slayer of minds

The Slayer of Minds

Shocking to see how old she had become
uncombed hair, no make up on, dirty nails
as she had been digging her own grave with
bare hands. I didn’t know what to say,
stroked her cheek, didn’t care to kiss her
grey, unwashed skin, felt like scolding her
letting herself go like that!
My twin sister, wondered how I looked,
living alone I didn’t really know, but I did
shower daily and kept my fingernails clean.
Alzheimer, this cruel disease, robs the afflicted
of dignity; I had come to take her home, look
after her till she was an empty shell, then
next step, the nursing home

the great Hush

The Great Hush.

It’s gone all quiet here, the people who sang
and the man who spoke, couldn’t catch what
he said, have all gone home or to a café for
lunch. Someone is digging in the soil.
stands to reason, it is spring, planting time.
in the poppy field, that shimmers unearthly
crimson at evening time. A great battle raged
and when the last bullet were fired flowers,
grew, en masse, to cover for the unspeakable
horror, caused by humankind; collectors can
still find rusty buttons of so they can tell us
which army fought whom? It’s so quite here
I can hear mother’ tears, of silent resignation,
the day my father left home.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

a day in june

A day In June

He sat on the milk ramp waiting for the noon bus
taking him to the village, to pick up a pair of shoes
from the cobbler. It was a hot day in June, he got
drowsy, had been up since five milking the cows;
fell asleep didn’t wake up before the bus returned;
it was then after three.

He had been dreaming of the sea, wanted to be
captain, one day, even though he was near sighted.
“I’ll go to the tomorrow,” his mother said, gave him
a glass of milk, and two big slices of bread with
blueberry jam on; later, as shadows deepened, he
ran to the outer field to get the cows home

a bookshop in May

A Bookshop in May


The lady in the bookshop, in another town an hour drive
from my home, was kind took in my collections of poetry
that had been evicted from another shop for not selling,
taking up shelf place, it was said. The lady in the new shop
has long, thin fingers, perhaps she plays the piano, elfin her
waist and fragrant her perfume; she wore flat heeled shoes;

that is practicable, if she’s on her feet all day, her partners
name is Louis Byron but is not related to Lord Byron,
the poet and that’s ok, some poets are famous for their
personal life which scholars find fascinating, There is plenty
of shelf places here, hopefully when T. Blair’s memoirs is
published, us poets will not be evicted once again

a hunter's night

A Hunter’s Night

The valley is pellucid enveloping all living
things in a loving embrace of softness and
mirthless laughter; domestic animals are
stabled or grazing on night fields, they have
no natural enemies anymore and have yet
to learn that man, their keepers, remove and
kills them, one by one, on nights of fire and
giggle. But none of this matter now, I hear
my steps on the lane, made of sea sand, leads
from the village to the graveyard and is kept
smooth. Anyone, no matter how taxing she
or he might have been in live, deserves a last
soft ride to the cemetery, as bells toll for us
and Earnest Hemingway is dead.

Monday, May 14, 2007

The Unwanted Truth

Unpalatable often is the truth, I must face the fact
that in this blessed land I will always be regarded
as an outsider, who doesn’t understand their ways.
And now that the people have cast a vote for
the late dictator Salazar, who ruled them into dire
poverty and ignorance for forty years, as the most
famous Portuguese of all time, it’s time to leave,
because I really don’t understand a damned thing

Untitled

Untitled

Inconsolable,
my land is
a vanishing
dream;
the lumber
night
breathes
a whisper into
my ears.
You cannot
go back,
they have left,
wind and dust blow
through
empty rooms,
the slamming
of a shutter
tells of unstoppable
silence

The Tree

The Tree


When I open my bedroom window
in the morning, my almond tree is
standing there, a few yards away,
dressed in green and flirtatiousness,
her leaves flutter, as the eyelashes of
a good natured tart. As summer wears
on, her dress turns chocolate brown
and in September gives birth to sweet
almonds. Winter is not a good time
for her, loses leaves and only a grey,
bland bark stands between her and
mortification. To spar her blushes,
I pretend not to see her standing there,
first thing in the morning

Deadly plants

Deadly Plants.


Through the white
net curtains, slowly
turning sepia-
don’t know why-
I can see
the rhododendron
I planted
ten years ago,
it has strangled
the lean-to and
is heading
for the kitchen window.
Must remember to
keep it shut or it
will enter
look pretty, for
a while, then strangle me
and the house

Collectors item

Collectors Item.



The metallic leaf on the bookshelf made
of copper, badly made too, is dark flecked
from neglect; I could polish it till it looked
like gold but why this pretence? Should have
thrown futile scrap out long ago, together
with other useless bits & pieces picked up on
the road. The leaf doesn’t even have a memory
attached to it; was just there, on the shelf, near
paperbacks with loose pages and the dictionary
that has lost the pages Y and Z. They take up
place for proper books, posh ones, imitation
leather and not worn out by extreme handling.
I’ll get around to clearing up one day; it will be
hard like losing old friends.

Misfits

The Misfits

Paradise vale where nature is a post-card picture
and every day is equally long, where mules bray,
chicken lay eggs, sheep graze easy amongst olive
trees. no escape from this tedium; unless someone
dies, it doesn’t happen often, we can-on such sad
sobering moment and after the coffin has been
lowered into sandy soil- get legally, blindly drunk
in memory of one, we no longer recall the name
of, but nevertheless was a man, who like us, didn’t
have money to escape this dreary Eden. We who
live here have in common that we came here to get
away from it all, (mostly our selves) we’re misfits,
in a world that marches at a different tune; dreamers
of an Eden on the blood soaked soil of wars.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Tanka

Tanka

Work, work and labour
Drink coffee through a straw
Your lunch on plastic
Don’t leave the office at five
Be busy, hang on till eight

tanka

Tanka

Europe’s song contest
Sung from the same sheet
And in English
One language one culture
Surely this will bring peace.

High standard

High Standard

She tells me this story see, when she met this
rich guy and they traveled everywhere. Concert
in Vienna, spas in Germany, skiing in the Alps
and lazy summer days in southern Spain and
winter break on the Bahamas. Ends her tale
making it clear that she’s used the good things
in life, and so it goes. Now for the real ending;
the rich man left her for a younger companion
and plunged her into poverty, she had to sell
jewelry and her mink coat, worked in real estate,
and serving dinner to rowdy working men at
a roadside café. Fifty, too late to meet a rich
guy, but insist a new, if poorer, beau must have
clean fingernail and not smell of petrol

British legion. Garston. liverpool

British Legion, Garston
(Liverpool) 1974


Once I worked as a steward there,
the committee, men who had never
been in position of power before,
argued about the insignificant; while
drinking free pints of bitter... Quite
pathetic they were, wore old suits,
tie and hat, tried to look like gents,
but tongue and style betrayed them;
a strong voice and they shrank back
to their forelock tugging past
I liked them tough and understood
their illusions, workers like to be
bosses. and we admire aristocracy,
who jolly well do as they please

Friday, May 11, 2007

the Yearning

The Yearning.

El Rocio, my dream, how I long for this walk
to end my feet are tortured and have lost spring
of youth, I’m not “Hoppalong Cassidy”,
the bright cowboy who didn’t smoke but chewed
gum and kept an eye on the baddies of his frontier
town...at the same time. The church in El Rocio
is white and inside airy as the blue sky, I’ll sit on
its steps and wait for my first love to come; and as
liver-spotted hands meet, years will melt away,
laughter, how silly we’re in those days. And I will
look into your face and see you as you were when
seventeen. You will promise me to be there on
the last hour of my life when my years roll back
until they meet up with infinity
A New Launch.

I can see it now, sun paled rocks by the sea
nuns in a rowing boat and terns glued to
the calm, blue sky; I lived there once where
eternal summer reigned till crisp snow fell
covering the land with hushed wonder and
the aroma of home baked bread; till Easter
lilies and green grass reappeared. I know,
there is no way back, yet, what I have lost
will always stay with me; the ethereal dream
of an Eden lost.

humiliation

Humiliation


Warm spring day, a tall, blue sky with dots of friendly
clouds on, when I rode my scooter into town wanted
to see if the bookshop had sold any of my collections
of poetry. They were not on shelves, the lady owner
had taken them down: “No one wants to your poems,”
she said, with an icy smile, handed me my many verses,
wrapped in dark plastic bag, the type used for garbage.
There were many in the shop that day, some smirked
others looked embarrassed on my behalf, pretended to
read. Yes, I was humiliated, but smiled and left her shop,
wondering what had made her so rude. Outside, time
rolled on, the landscape is green now, soon it will pale
and wilt under the cruel June sun; I will not let anyone
or anything spoil this mild day in May.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

the lost

The Lost.

I was young home from the sea, my friends
have a working week, some were already
married, so I walked alone around the town,
looked into shop windows, which was rather
dull and ended up in a bar had an early beer,
and met people who were just drifting along;
they showed me kindness, I knew why, but
it’s hard to be home from the sea and no one
to talk to. The friends I knew had, as they,
say moved on. The glory of quest, the world
I knew was slipping away, the days when we
were single have gone and I’m the loser, me,
the sailor of the seven seas, pays for beer by
those who sit and laugh in morning bars.

A jewish family Remembered

A Jewish Family Remembered

Mother left the orphanage at fifteen to go into service,
as a maid, with the family Rabinowitch, who were in
the garment business. They had two sons, who both
went to live in the USA; a wise choice as it turned out.
Nothing much for mother to do so she spent her time
reading books from the family’s extensive library, and
the kind couple let her. Two years later, when mother
had read all the books, the lady of the house suggested
mother should find other employment as she wasn’t cut
out to be a maid. Mother she cried when learning that
both had perished in a death camp, somewhere Germany;
a senseless death of two beautiful people. Their kindness
changed mother’s life, made her horizon wider; and what
she had leaned she thought me; yes, she too was beautiful

book burning

Book Burning


I was going to throw away unsold collections
of poetry when there was a knock on my door,
it was the Mongolian ambassador, he wanted
my books, said they were splendidly brilliant,
and looked forward seeing more of my work

No, I’ll start over again. I was going to throw
away my unsold collections of poetry, when
a thought knocked, why not put them in the shed
set them alight when there is snow in the air, and
see glowing cinders shine amongst stars. .

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

The assassination

The Assassination

“No officer, you don’t get it, the sward wasn’t
meant to hurt anyone it was for cutting treads
that keeps my family bonds together to a false
past. The general had money, beside we had
let him see my aunt’s tits; wasn’t happy, wanted
to feel them too; she called him an old pervert
refused to let him touch her. He declined, to pay-
as agreed- I rattled the sward, to jolt him sir,
He attacked me, charging like demented hen,
ran into sward and swore I’m no hero, when real
assassins came and shot him death, I fled; as he
fell, and as if by magic, his uniform was too big,
the killers ran off too, one of them, the one with
the limp, had a wooden leg.

The Magic

The Magic.


Catch morning
sunlight
on the green sea,
mix it with pure
mountain snow
and rock salt,
see how flecks
of phosphor
turn to gold
nuggets.
Beware though,
only admire
the shiny metal
at night,
for in sunlight
it turns into
shimmering drops
of green sea
again

A Jewish Family Remembered

A Jewish Family Remembered

Mother left the orphanage at fifteen to go into service,
as a maid, with the family Rabinowitch, who were in
the garment business. They had two sons, who both
went to live in the USA; a wise choice as it turned out.
Nothing much for mother to do so she spent her time
reading books from the family’s extensive library, and
the kind couple let her. Two years later, when mother
had read all the books, the lady of the house suggested
mother should find other employment as she wasn’t cut
out to be a maid. Mother she cried when learning that
both had perished in a death camp, somewhere Germany;
a senseless death of two beautiful people. Their kindness
changed mother’s life, made her horizon wider; and what
she had leaned she thought me; yes, she too was beautiful

Saturday, May 05, 2007

a deadly joke

A Deadly Joke.

In northern Norway once, just above the arctic
circle, I rented a log cabin; the locals told me that
at times, when a big storm brewed, polar bears
tried to seek shelter by knocking on doors, and if
anyone opened it had both food and shelter. No,
I didn’t believe that. An evening as a blizzard was
on its way, and it was getting very cold, there was
a knock on my door I opened it, and there in front
of me a tall polar bear, I quickly shut the door and
locked it and shuttered the windows. Big whiteout
didn’t abate till a dawn that was unbelievable cold.
Opened the door looked out the bear was curled up
in fetus position and frozen solid. I realized then it
was a native who had tried to play a prank on me.

the suicide

The Suicide.

He rose early, put his charcoal suit on, dark tie
and white shirt, a bland neat man; eat breakfast
at Daisy’s café, pancakes with strawberry jam,
served by a busy, wordless waiter He walked to
the town’s square it was full of farmers selling
their products and gypsies selling red plastic
bucket, toys and balloons. A mutiny of voices,
peoples’ commerce at its best, in the middle of
this throng he took up his 22 caliber pistol and
blew his brain out. Only a few people noticed
and those who did wasn’t quite sure what they
had seen, as the para-medics quickly came and
took the body away. The rest, at the market that
day, only read about his suicide next morning

mother and I

Mother and I

Mother’s ashes all gone, used a teaspoon,
on my corn flakes every morning it took
two years. Mother was a perfect speller,
I’m a lousy one, she was also strong and
though by eating her I would get some of
these qualities. Alas, it hasn’t worked out
well, I’ve got a dowager’s hump, read
romances about dentists, and get misty all
eyed when it ends with wedding bells.
When I wake up in the morning I have to
concentrate hard to remember who I’m,
the mirror isn’t helpful she grins back at
me; when an elderly gentleman helped me
across the street her laughter was audible.

Friday, May 04, 2007

tanka

Tanka

A virtually blank page
Waits for the poet to write
Verses and stanzas
But words race in his head
Slippery as running piglets

tanka

Tanka

A virtually blank page
Waits for the poet to write
Verses and stanzas
But words race in his head
Slippery as running piglets

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Paris, Mon amour

Paris, Mon Amour

My partner’s gone up to Lisbon to see
her daughter and visit relatives,
I know this isn’t true, she is going
to a wedding in Paris, I wasn’t invited
and she didn’t like to tell me that.
I’ve painted the hall and living room,
tomorrow I’ll paint the kitchen, then
the wall around the house, the yard and
finally the wooden shutters. When she
comes home I’ll sit and read the paper,
no big deal doing a bit of painting. If she
tells me where she has been I’ll look
surprised. Still, I would have liked to see
Paris, they say she’s beautiful in May.

sea surge

Sea Surge

Drove for an hour to get to the coast, climbed
sand-dunes before reaching the sea; immense,
calm and full it was, slight heaves, breathing
easily. Didn’t splash about making noises, it
could so easily turn into a monster, a tsunami,
a sudden surge and both the sandy coastline
and I would be history. I picked a few shiny,
wet stones to take home, but when they dried
looked so ordinary that I left them behind.
Sea air made me hungry thought of deep fried
sardines, sliced cucumber in sour cream and
baked potatoes; but it wasn’t the right season.
Had a bacon butty instead, read about a US
army surge, splashing about in Baghdad

senryu

Senryu

A virtual blank page
Waits for virtual black letters
To form a sentence

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Longway from home

Long way from home

The supermarket’s café is full of shoppers
the cacophonies of voices melt into a song
old as humanity itself. Feel safe amongst
my own kind, outside this sphere of safety
streets are wide and cold.

I can’t sit here too long occupying a table
for four, must have fallen asleep, a gentle
hand on my shoulder: “You ok, sir? More
coffee? “ “No thank you, it’s time for me
to leave, I still have miles to go”

senryu

Senryu

Poetical words
Strewn on the field of forever,
Yield oblivion

Surrender

Surrender.

Dawn, it has been raining it will soon rain more;
from my window I se the tarn it looks like spilt
milk on a kitchen table, and amongst trees mist
slowly whirls around to music unheard by any
living creature. Feathery my body and I’m part
of this scene, must be careful though, not close
my eyes, if I do I might be totally absorbed and
unable to be one again; yet, if I do let go, it is
tempting, I’ll hear mystic music not listened to
any man before. Gray and white morning soft
contours, the cockerel crews, the radio speaks
of more rain like I didn’t know. It has begun to
rain, as I stand by the window, feeling the ease
of being; and wonder if I closed my eyes?

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

the absent moon

The Absent Moon


The moon tonight will not been seen
by lovers in my vale, a band of clouds
resentfully cover the sky in obliquity,
despite of this, lovers will hold hands
and embrace whatever the hateful do

The seeker

The Seeker


This flowing idea of pure love
not our squalid affairs that end
in recrimination, mutual hatred,
damned lies and jealousy;

to be grain, water and yeast,
nourishing food, to unlimited
give unconditional love, clear
as the mountain’s stream;

if I could have a crumb of that
vision it would cleanse, what
has been a luckless love life,
and I will gladly die tomorrow.

may parade

May Parade.

Overcast, and it is the workers day, here in Algarve,
most places are close, except those who are self –
employed who mark their distance from wage
receivers by working a few hours, as they grumble
sourly about low production. In Britain they call it
Bank Holiday, to celebrate the workers day is
embarrassing in a country where people are made
to feel ashamed for being working class. In Norway
there is marching in main streets today, waving of
banners and flags, horn music and general noise; and
why not, here the middle classes too- those who
receive a wage- see themselves as workers, march
to ghastly music, and shout “up the workers” as fist
fights break out outside restaurants at closing time.

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