Helping the Banks
The night is as obscure as homemade wine the TV screen
casts a grave light in a room that has no shadow; presidents
and prime ministers appear tell us of financial woes, even
the forgotten George Bush is there; they say they are doing
the best they can and that savers money is safe; but I know
they are as powerless as I’m, but they were the ones who
let lose the beast of a free market believing in the myth that
it would correct itself that is to ask a drunk to stop drinking,
gallons of booze and it are all free. “And your money is safe”
is not true, when a bank goes belly up the savers money is
the first to go. Had I money I would take them out and place
them under my mattress but since I’m broke I tell you.
They will try to stop you say it will make matters worse, so
let it; withdrawing you money is the only power you have,
you have little to lose, they will lose everything for without
your cash they are nothing
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Dick Whittington....
Dick Whittington and…
I tell my moggy that sits by the door and wants to go out
hunting in the night, that cats can only be taken out when
on a lead, because they kill sparrows and other birds; the world
is falling apart, banks are closing and the rich has to sell
their second yacht, while my terrace is full of bird droppings,
The cat is not doing its job;
am I supposed to clean up after them, fat birds feeding only
on rose petals and an ineffective cat that can’t keep order.
I’ve to get another cat one that isn’t tainted by bird calls and
not addicted by seed.
We have to change the world friendship only softens
the guardians who think they should eat from a golden troth
while we are served mud cakes from a plastic sack
And as I watch Tony Blair speak about this crises looking as
innocent as a house cat, it dawns on me that we really have to
cut off the balls of all male cats so they can’t go around
being paid for spreading obnoxious scent all over the place
I tell my moggy that sits by the door and wants to go out
hunting in the night, that cats can only be taken out when
on a lead, because they kill sparrows and other birds; the world
is falling apart, banks are closing and the rich has to sell
their second yacht, while my terrace is full of bird droppings,
The cat is not doing its job;
am I supposed to clean up after them, fat birds feeding only
on rose petals and an ineffective cat that can’t keep order.
I’ve to get another cat one that isn’t tainted by bird calls and
not addicted by seed.
We have to change the world friendship only softens
the guardians who think they should eat from a golden troth
while we are served mud cakes from a plastic sack
And as I watch Tony Blair speak about this crises looking as
innocent as a house cat, it dawns on me that we really have to
cut off the balls of all male cats so they can’t go around
being paid for spreading obnoxious scent all over the place
Monday, September 29, 2008
the storm
A Tempestade (The Storm)
By Ibn Suhayd 992-1034
In darkness
Each flower opens its mouth
And drink from the teats of
Fertile rain
Loaded with water
Armies of black clouds
Majestically
Marches
With golden swords of lightning
By Ibn Suhayd 992-1034
In darkness
Each flower opens its mouth
And drink from the teats of
Fertile rain
Loaded with water
Armies of black clouds
Majestically
Marches
With golden swords of lightning
animal concern
Animal Concern
I ought to protest for all, the world, they are killing
Bulls for fun in Spain. Elegant, but murderous men
with handkerchiefs folded up their crotch to give
illusion of big balls struts about with slim swords
and capes killing the stupid beast when it is tired of
a game it doesn’t understand.
When I think of the Roma children who drowned on
a beach in Italy and lay there for ours under bright
towels, while bathers, unconcerned went about their
business, when I think of these unlawful wars and
a bigger one that will engulf us all, then I must admit
that I don’t give a shit about Spanish bulls
I ought to protest for all, the world, they are killing
Bulls for fun in Spain. Elegant, but murderous men
with handkerchiefs folded up their crotch to give
illusion of big balls struts about with slim swords
and capes killing the stupid beast when it is tired of
a game it doesn’t understand.
When I think of the Roma children who drowned on
a beach in Italy and lay there for ours under bright
towels, while bathers, unconcerned went about their
business, when I think of these unlawful wars and
a bigger one that will engulf us all, then I must admit
that I don’t give a shit about Spanish bulls
addiction
Addiction
Rain has abated
A man under an awing
Counts falling raindrops
He has little else to do
He stopped smoking last night
Fiddles with a lighter
Clicks it on and off forever
Giggles to himself
Kicks in a sweetshop window
Grabs a handful of “all sorts”
Rain has abated
A man under an awing
Counts falling raindrops
He has little else to do
He stopped smoking last night
Fiddles with a lighter
Clicks it on and off forever
Giggles to himself
Kicks in a sweetshop window
Grabs a handful of “all sorts”
no comment
No Comment
So here we sit shielding behind Sunday
and unspoken boredom leafing through
newspapers that predict the fall of
the society as we know it, without Wall
Street, the darkness beckons.
Crisis, we can’t all have a home, whom to
blame, if this time, not the Jews the Persians
can come in handy. Wars are ritual
bloodletting 30-40 million dead and nature
will restore it self
The ice caps will refreeze a clear distinction
between the seasons, above all, Wall Street
will bloom again, politicians will extol our
capitalism, and we will be told not to envious
of those who are filthy rich.
So here we sit shielding behind Sunday
and unspoken boredom leafing through
newspapers that predict the fall of
the society as we know it, without Wall
Street, the darkness beckons.
Crisis, we can’t all have a home, whom to
blame, if this time, not the Jews the Persians
can come in handy. Wars are ritual
bloodletting 30-40 million dead and nature
will restore it self
The ice caps will refreeze a clear distinction
between the seasons, above all, Wall Street
will bloom again, politicians will extol our
capitalism, and we will be told not to envious
of those who are filthy rich.
autumnal sunday
Autumnal Sunday
Rain, it is October the month of melancholy
and you know that the blue sky and sun of
yesterday was just another foolish illusion
the cock didn’t crow this morning and dogs
ears didn’t move when a stranger’s voice
echoed in narrow streets, they knew it was
the voice of doom;
the harvester had arrived in coming month
the old would succumb to the damp breath
of death; not too many tears shed, faces in
a black frame, yes, that’s the way it is we
understand death if not our own. Dogs need
not be told, they snooze sure they are own
their own immortality
Rain, it is October the month of melancholy
and you know that the blue sky and sun of
yesterday was just another foolish illusion
the cock didn’t crow this morning and dogs
ears didn’t move when a stranger’s voice
echoed in narrow streets, they knew it was
the voice of doom;
the harvester had arrived in coming month
the old would succumb to the damp breath
of death; not too many tears shed, faces in
a black frame, yes, that’s the way it is we
understand death if not our own. Dogs need
not be told, they snooze sure they are own
their own immortality
alitre of wine
A litre of wine
The wine in the glass is full the red liquid arches the slightest
movement and it will spill over and run down the stem like
a bleeding stomach wound trickling down a petrified leg.
I bent down and inhaled the wine no spillage and I wondered
why it is so many people, in fact more and more drink beer
that is no longer a natural brew is it because we are no longer
a part of nature and seek and feel more at ease with man made
products and we will soon have a diet that fits with the work
we are doing, say if you want a double cheeseburger with fries
you first have to work shuffling coal for twelve hours,
but if you only want to sit writing a simple poem about
the country side low fat yogurt for you; if you have written
the poem under the influence of a steak you will be censured,
made to walk in the park and tell everyone you’re a crock of
empty of gold empty of anything a modern society such as
networking banalities and get people to buy what they don’t
need; men get medals and titles for doing that. So what do
I care, but it annoys me that I end up buying a soap which
name I have seen on the television and smell like everybody
else, yeah…isn’t that just nice?
The wine in the glass is full the red liquid arches the slightest
movement and it will spill over and run down the stem like
a bleeding stomach wound trickling down a petrified leg.
I bent down and inhaled the wine no spillage and I wondered
why it is so many people, in fact more and more drink beer
that is no longer a natural brew is it because we are no longer
a part of nature and seek and feel more at ease with man made
products and we will soon have a diet that fits with the work
we are doing, say if you want a double cheeseburger with fries
you first have to work shuffling coal for twelve hours,
but if you only want to sit writing a simple poem about
the country side low fat yogurt for you; if you have written
the poem under the influence of a steak you will be censured,
made to walk in the park and tell everyone you’re a crock of
empty of gold empty of anything a modern society such as
networking banalities and get people to buy what they don’t
need; men get medals and titles for doing that. So what do
I care, but it annoys me that I end up buying a soap which
name I have seen on the television and smell like everybody
else, yeah…isn’t that just nice?
Livorno Mon amour
Livorno Mon Amour
Livorno this dreary harbour port, not Rome and now in
winter a ghost town, every window shuttered telling not
of life inside. Into the bar came a young woman, long legs
like a colt, she was frozen warmed her hand and fanny by
the fire. I thought she looked like the American I had once
seen the shadow of in Trieste, I offered her a drink, she
had a coke, then she left to resume her lonely profession.
Later that night I saw her by a corner and as cold rain hung
In the air; I took her to an hotel, got heating going, she
jumped into bed ready to do her duty, but I was pensive
waiting to write a poem about Trieste.
When I awoke tired morning light seeped through holed
curtains, the girl had put a blanket around me in the night
I was grateful for that. We breakfasted; she had fried eggs
and ham, I drank coffee and a little brandy. Saw her dance
down the street, yes she looked like an eager colt. Hoped
she would meet a rich man, marry him and become his
respectable whore instead of ending up an old diseased
slag begging drinks from men who are ready to debase her.
Two days later I took the train to Trieste, I asked around
but no one had seen the American girl and the poem was
never written.
Livorno this dreary harbour port, not Rome and now in
winter a ghost town, every window shuttered telling not
of life inside. Into the bar came a young woman, long legs
like a colt, she was frozen warmed her hand and fanny by
the fire. I thought she looked like the American I had once
seen the shadow of in Trieste, I offered her a drink, she
had a coke, then she left to resume her lonely profession.
Later that night I saw her by a corner and as cold rain hung
In the air; I took her to an hotel, got heating going, she
jumped into bed ready to do her duty, but I was pensive
waiting to write a poem about Trieste.
When I awoke tired morning light seeped through holed
curtains, the girl had put a blanket around me in the night
I was grateful for that. We breakfasted; she had fried eggs
and ham, I drank coffee and a little brandy. Saw her dance
down the street, yes she looked like an eager colt. Hoped
she would meet a rich man, marry him and become his
respectable whore instead of ending up an old diseased
slag begging drinks from men who are ready to debase her.
Two days later I took the train to Trieste, I asked around
but no one had seen the American girl and the poem was
never written.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
the jogger
The Jogger
They said he had invented jogging and he was quite
addicted to his invention, ran every afternoon longer
and longer distances; till he dropped dead.
“He had congenital heart disease and would have died
anyway,” the defenders of jogging said.
Sure but that’s not the point he could have died when
copulating, angling, having a splendid meal with wine
or congenial drink with friends in the bar, and not
prancing about in shorts on a cold road alone a chilly
autumnal evening.
They said he had invented jogging and he was quite
addicted to his invention, ran every afternoon longer
and longer distances; till he dropped dead.
“He had congenital heart disease and would have died
anyway,” the defenders of jogging said.
Sure but that’s not the point he could have died when
copulating, angling, having a splendid meal with wine
or congenial drink with friends in the bar, and not
prancing about in shorts on a cold road alone a chilly
autumnal evening.
o marmelo
O Marmelo (a pear shaped fruit of
the quince, tree can also mean
“Saio de Mulher” Bosom)
Al-Musahfi ca 982
Translated from
old Portuguese by Jan Oskar Hansen
O Marmelo
Is of the colour yellow that of shame
A narcissist’ tunic and it has a musky
Penetrating aroma
As the perfume of once beloved and has
The same force as the heart but has
The colour of one who is in love and
haggard.
Her paleness is but an imprint of my pallor
And my breath has the aroma
Of my woman’s breaths
Fragrant when the fruit is lifted from the branch
Under the brocade of woven leaves, suavely
In my hand I carry it indoors and put it as
A costly treasure, in my alcove
Dressed in grey down which flutters on its
Smooth golden body
And when in my hand, naked sans its shirt-
The colour of narcissism- makes me record
What I can’t express as the heat of my vigor
Fades and drips between my fingers
the quince, tree can also mean
“Saio de Mulher” Bosom)
Al-Musahfi ca 982
Translated from
old Portuguese by Jan Oskar Hansen
O Marmelo
Is of the colour yellow that of shame
A narcissist’ tunic and it has a musky
Penetrating aroma
As the perfume of once beloved and has
The same force as the heart but has
The colour of one who is in love and
haggard.
Her paleness is but an imprint of my pallor
And my breath has the aroma
Of my woman’s breaths
Fragrant when the fruit is lifted from the branch
Under the brocade of woven leaves, suavely
In my hand I carry it indoors and put it as
A costly treasure, in my alcove
Dressed in grey down which flutters on its
Smooth golden body
And when in my hand, naked sans its shirt-
The colour of narcissism- makes me record
What I can’t express as the heat of my vigor
Fades and drips between my fingers
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
tomorrows world
Tomorrows World
So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.
We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.
This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die
So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.
We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.
This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
the disappeared
The Disappeared
The man, in our village, who died last
year is now entirely forgotten, since
he passed away- before Christmas-
someone else had to come kill the pigs.
His wife has shed her mourning dress
has got a lover, he arrives late at her
house and leaves at dawn; we know
and decorously pretend we don’t
It is a bit frightening to realize who
quickly the deceased are forgotten,
it must be so it’s good for our ego
to see how insignificant we are.
There is a new killer of pigs now, he
lives in the next village and it is said
he’s even better at it then the one who
expired; what was his name again?
As I write these meager lines millions
have died, some in agony we cannot
shed tears for the world’s monotony,
forget and welcome the newborns.
So, hold on to life do not strangle it
with impossible demands of longevity
smell the rose they are demises perfume
and hope you’ll see tomorrow’s sunrise.
The man, in our village, who died last
year is now entirely forgotten, since
he passed away- before Christmas-
someone else had to come kill the pigs.
His wife has shed her mourning dress
has got a lover, he arrives late at her
house and leaves at dawn; we know
and decorously pretend we don’t
It is a bit frightening to realize who
quickly the deceased are forgotten,
it must be so it’s good for our ego
to see how insignificant we are.
There is a new killer of pigs now, he
lives in the next village and it is said
he’s even better at it then the one who
expired; what was his name again?
As I write these meager lines millions
have died, some in agony we cannot
shed tears for the world’s monotony,
forget and welcome the newborns.
So, hold on to life do not strangle it
with impossible demands of longevity
smell the rose they are demises perfume
and hope you’ll see tomorrow’s sunrise.
tomorrow's world
Tomorrows World
So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.
We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.
This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die
So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.
We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.
This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die
tanka for you
Tanka
Quiver in fingers
Folded as a butterflies wings
Long is the day after
Suckling pig and strong wine
And too early for a beer
Quiver in fingers
Folded as a butterflies wings
Long is the day after
Suckling pig and strong wine
And too early for a beer
white skin
Original Title
A Tez Branca
By IBN ABD RABBINI
Ca 860 - 940
White Skin
A thing like this
Have we never
Heard of,
The reward for modesty
A goat horn transformed
Into a pearl
So very shiny her face
When contemplating
Its perfection, that the real
Face vanishes in its
Own clarity
A Tez Branca
By IBN ABD RABBINI
Ca 860 - 940
White Skin
A thing like this
Have we never
Heard of,
The reward for modesty
A goat horn transformed
Into a pearl
So very shiny her face
When contemplating
Its perfection, that the real
Face vanishes in its
Own clarity
Monday, September 22, 2008
The proletariat
The Proletariat
A creamy butterfly
Sat on a big yellow rose,
Softly fluttering wings
Betrayed its modest presence
A common sparrow swooped.
I sadly concluded:
The masses don’t care for art
Busy as they are,
Wedded to a life of work,
No time to stop and wonder.
A creamy butterfly
Sat on a big yellow rose,
Softly fluttering wings
Betrayed its modest presence
A common sparrow swooped.
I sadly concluded:
The masses don’t care for art
Busy as they are,
Wedded to a life of work,
No time to stop and wonder.
Denmark mon Amour
Denmark, Mon Amour
Aarhus, Denmark, yes I was there many years ago,
perhaps the place has changed but I doubt it. Met
a woman there her name was Margot, about my age,
a racy thirty, I was off a ship going home next day.
How perfectly we danced together and how I liked
the promising glint in her brown eyes, yes she was
the right one for me; and when the bar closed it was
only natural that I followed her home.
But as she turned the key on the lock of her door,
she asked me for money, shocked I mumbled yes,
but wondered if I would be able to after this cold
shower of naked reality
She had a dog and as she put a mattress on the floor
for us to lie on, the dog kept glaring at me, its eyes
were spiteful eyes night after night it saw men doing
things to her it could only dream of
I took my trousers off and tried to get through this
act of loves’ betrayal when the dog had had enough
and bit my bum, I began giggling and gave up this
pretense and we’re all relieved when I left.
Aarhus, Denmark, yes I was there many years ago,
perhaps the place has changed but I doubt it. Met
a woman there her name was Margot, about my age,
a racy thirty, I was off a ship going home next day.
How perfectly we danced together and how I liked
the promising glint in her brown eyes, yes she was
the right one for me; and when the bar closed it was
only natural that I followed her home.
But as she turned the key on the lock of her door,
she asked me for money, shocked I mumbled yes,
but wondered if I would be able to after this cold
shower of naked reality
She had a dog and as she put a mattress on the floor
for us to lie on, the dog kept glaring at me, its eyes
were spiteful eyes night after night it saw men doing
things to her it could only dream of
I took my trousers off and tried to get through this
act of loves’ betrayal when the dog had had enough
and bit my bum, I began giggling and gave up this
pretense and we’re all relieved when I left.
autumnal song
An Autumnal Song
Autumn in the park leaves keep falling off trees,
silently just like snow; many people around,
children behave themselves and dogs do ditto
Oslo enjoys a rare threat, a clear Saturday sky,
soon there will be massive rain falls, later sleet and
endless snow, and naked tree will suffer for our sins.
Tomorrow I’ll return to Portugal, where leaves fall
off trees too, but in time of decay the almond tree
will flower and strew silky snow on my way.
Peace will come over me, the burden of nostalgia
and sadness that made me weary in Oslo will leave,
and I will be free of my past.
I have lived in here twenty years, that’s how old I’m
having been born twice, first time I had no say in
the matter, but this time, however, I willed it.
And I shall go on living here amongst thorny bushes,
olive, carob and almond trees, I will not leave again
until my journey comes to an end
Autumn in the park leaves keep falling off trees,
silently just like snow; many people around,
children behave themselves and dogs do ditto
Oslo enjoys a rare threat, a clear Saturday sky,
soon there will be massive rain falls, later sleet and
endless snow, and naked tree will suffer for our sins.
Tomorrow I’ll return to Portugal, where leaves fall
off trees too, but in time of decay the almond tree
will flower and strew silky snow on my way.
Peace will come over me, the burden of nostalgia
and sadness that made me weary in Oslo will leave,
and I will be free of my past.
I have lived in here twenty years, that’s how old I’m
having been born twice, first time I had no say in
the matter, but this time, however, I willed it.
And I shall go on living here amongst thorny bushes,
olive, carob and almond trees, I will not leave again
until my journey comes to an end
lovesick blues
It’s Love, You See.
Knocked on the lovely ladies door, asked if
I could weed the flowers in her front garden,
mow the lawn and trim her hedge. She smiled,
said she has a man in the house to do it.
“Next year?” “Perhaps,” she said and gently
closed the door. Then it was autumn, leaves
flew trough the air making me feel blue;
then winter with snow, and from my window
I saw see her garden looked like every one
else’s, suburbia landscape
Spring came suddenly and her garden was
a mess, weeds were strangulating her flowers,
the lawn a jungle, her hedge looked like
a broken accordion. I walked over and asked
her again, she was in a foul mood, said: “I could
do what I wanted but don’t expect her to be
grateful, I hate men you’re all alike,” with that
she slammed the door shut. It took me weeks
to get the garden ship shape, but when all was
perfect I knocked on her door again.
She came out into the summer sun shine, but
she wasn’t alone leaning her head against
a man’s shoulders she smiled up to me with
teeth that looked like marble headstones in
a Spanish graveyard in moonlight, and her
eyes had the hard glint of sapphires. From my
window I can see her garden it’s lit up by
the light of her bedroom window, and when
the light is switched off I still sit there, tell
myself that I don’t lover her anymore.
Knocked on the lovely ladies door, asked if
I could weed the flowers in her front garden,
mow the lawn and trim her hedge. She smiled,
said she has a man in the house to do it.
“Next year?” “Perhaps,” she said and gently
closed the door. Then it was autumn, leaves
flew trough the air making me feel blue;
then winter with snow, and from my window
I saw see her garden looked like every one
else’s, suburbia landscape
Spring came suddenly and her garden was
a mess, weeds were strangulating her flowers,
the lawn a jungle, her hedge looked like
a broken accordion. I walked over and asked
her again, she was in a foul mood, said: “I could
do what I wanted but don’t expect her to be
grateful, I hate men you’re all alike,” with that
she slammed the door shut. It took me weeks
to get the garden ship shape, but when all was
perfect I knocked on her door again.
She came out into the summer sun shine, but
she wasn’t alone leaning her head against
a man’s shoulders she smiled up to me with
teeth that looked like marble headstones in
a Spanish graveyard in moonlight, and her
eyes had the hard glint of sapphires. From my
window I can see her garden it’s lit up by
the light of her bedroom window, and when
the light is switched off I still sit there, tell
myself that I don’t lover her anymore.
sunday Reflections
Sunday Reflections
Oslo airport, outside the sun shines cold and
the sky is a sheet of blue ice. Three days I spent
in Oslo looking at dwellings, near the castle,
nicely done up they were just like whores who
have had the good fortune marrying a rich idiot,
forgotten is the shady past, serious mien the poor
husband never gets a leg over now.
Hardy people the Oslo inhabitants are drink beer
with ice lumps in while it snows, this because
they can’t go inside to smoke, their hearts too frozen
too show any emotion other than watching porno.
I wanted to say halloo to my old friend the king,
knocked on the castle’s door his dim witted son
opened, I pinned a note on his forehead and left.
It’s nice to sit inside the warm airport knowing
soon I’ll be back in Portugal, it isn’t perfect and
rich, but the people have a song in their hearts
and the weather is for walking in her landscape,
beer is very cheap too and so is good bottle of
plonk. But roots are deep, when leaving I cried
a little, wish I could love my country a little more.
Oslo airport, outside the sun shines cold and
the sky is a sheet of blue ice. Three days I spent
in Oslo looking at dwellings, near the castle,
nicely done up they were just like whores who
have had the good fortune marrying a rich idiot,
forgotten is the shady past, serious mien the poor
husband never gets a leg over now.
Hardy people the Oslo inhabitants are drink beer
with ice lumps in while it snows, this because
they can’t go inside to smoke, their hearts too frozen
too show any emotion other than watching porno.
I wanted to say halloo to my old friend the king,
knocked on the castle’s door his dim witted son
opened, I pinned a note on his forehead and left.
It’s nice to sit inside the warm airport knowing
soon I’ll be back in Portugal, it isn’t perfect and
rich, but the people have a song in their hearts
and the weather is for walking in her landscape,
beer is very cheap too and so is good bottle of
plonk. But roots are deep, when leaving I cried
a little, wish I could love my country a little more.
Literature
Literature
Tomorrow I’ll be in Oslo, Norway, haven’t been there
for than twenty years. My brother lived in Oslo, back
then I knocked on his door, he didn’t open siblings’,
rivalry; told him I was living for Portugal and not
coming back; his silence distressed me and now he’s
dead. Yes, so I loved his wife and she came with me,
to Portugal. Tomorrow night I will be in Oslo…alone,
yes she left me too but I ain’t bitter I’ve been around for
quite awhile. By his graveside I’ll explain it all whether
he likes it or not, and make him understand that I made
a favour taking her away from his academic life; after
with her in the house he wouldn’t have been able to
write a weighty tome 800 page tome like: “The future
of poetry in the age of computers and cyber speak.”
Tomorrow I’ll be in Oslo, Norway, haven’t been there
for than twenty years. My brother lived in Oslo, back
then I knocked on his door, he didn’t open siblings’,
rivalry; told him I was living for Portugal and not
coming back; his silence distressed me and now he’s
dead. Yes, so I loved his wife and she came with me,
to Portugal. Tomorrow night I will be in Oslo…alone,
yes she left me too but I ain’t bitter I’ve been around for
quite awhile. By his graveside I’ll explain it all whether
he likes it or not, and make him understand that I made
a favour taking her away from his academic life; after
with her in the house he wouldn’t have been able to
write a weighty tome 800 page tome like: “The future
of poetry in the age of computers and cyber speak.”
inconsequent calamity
Inconsequent Calamity.
Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;
maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.
Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;
maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.
musical houses
Musical houses
And this is not a poem
A takes B´s house, B takes C’s house,
C lives in a tent and bids his time;
end of round one.
C, sees his chance retakes his house,
B goes back and demands his
rightful house from A.
A has lost, serves him right he’s
the ant Semitic bastard who started
it all, end of game till next genocide.
And this is not a poem
A takes B´s house, B takes C’s house,
C lives in a tent and bids his time;
end of round one.
C, sees his chance retakes his house,
B goes back and demands his
rightful house from A.
A has lost, serves him right he’s
the ant Semitic bastard who started
it all, end of game till next genocide.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Texas Gush
The Texas Gush
Surge in Baghdad and soldiers build
walls how banal, as the ocean surges
and islands disappear in the pacific;
let’s invade Nepal now, ring it with
a wall of soldiers and be safe; as sea
rises we can just climb higher up;
till we reach a bergs top, spend time
pushing each other off till there is
only one left and he kills himself;
a cold rock on the vast sea no wall
to stop its surges, but will the world
be free of annoying seagull shrikes?
Surge in Baghdad and soldiers build
walls how banal, as the ocean surges
and islands disappear in the pacific;
let’s invade Nepal now, ring it with
a wall of soldiers and be safe; as sea
rises we can just climb higher up;
till we reach a bergs top, spend time
pushing each other off till there is
only one left and he kills himself;
a cold rock on the vast sea no wall
to stop its surges, but will the world
be free of annoying seagull shrikes?
inconsequent calamity
Inconsequent Calamity.
Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;
maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.
Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;
maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.
Friday, September 12, 2008
look back in sadness
Look back in Sadness.
(Written as Tanka)
Bundle of photos
Face down in a cigar box
Family and friends
From a time that is a dream
Fading into eternity
Mostly black & white
How young my parents looked
Now I’m the oldest
Siblings faded fast away
As I sailed many seas
Non returnable
Past’s gate is firmly padlocked
Wait in no mans land
Know there is no remedy
The past really is a dream.
(Written as Tanka)
Bundle of photos
Face down in a cigar box
Family and friends
From a time that is a dream
Fading into eternity
Mostly black & white
How young my parents looked
Now I’m the oldest
Siblings faded fast away
As I sailed many seas
Non returnable
Past’s gate is firmly padlocked
Wait in no mans land
Know there is no remedy
The past really is a dream.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
US Soldiers
US Soldiers.
Full of propaganda and democratic zeal
the US soldiers came to Iraq; five years
later they now know there is no “Mission
Accomplished.” The soldiers have grown
up and no longer believe in this war, they
now call useless, mockingly laugh when
politicians speak of winning.
Good, working-class kids, manipulated
and lied to, from small towns and rural
communities, they are true Americans
who love their country, I salute them and
hope their leaders will think well before
asking them to fight, bleed and die for yet
another useless war.
Full of propaganda and democratic zeal
the US soldiers came to Iraq; five years
later they now know there is no “Mission
Accomplished.” The soldiers have grown
up and no longer believe in this war, they
now call useless, mockingly laugh when
politicians speak of winning.
Good, working-class kids, manipulated
and lied to, from small towns and rural
communities, they are true Americans
who love their country, I salute them and
hope their leaders will think well before
asking them to fight, bleed and die for yet
another useless war.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
wedding party
(Wedding Party)
Sailing down night Seine
Champagne brut and goose liver
The Eiffel Tower
Dressed in bright coloured charms
Looked like a demi monde
When the barge banked
I gave Seine the bird’s liver
Peed in the river
Studied the sliver of moon
Dreaming of ice cold lager
Paris’s night streets
September mild and at ease
Bars and bistros shut
The worthless slept in doorways
And I thought of Edit Piaf
Sailing down night Seine
Champagne brut and goose liver
The Eiffel Tower
Dressed in bright coloured charms
Looked like a demi monde
When the barge banked
I gave Seine the bird’s liver
Peed in the river
Studied the sliver of moon
Dreaming of ice cold lager
Paris’s night streets
September mild and at ease
Bars and bistros shut
The worthless slept in doorways
And I thought of Edit Piaf
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
five new haiku
Haiku
Misty night seeps down
Melancholic September
Averse sky pain for the sun
Haiku
Green moss on wet wall
The northwesterly blows rain
Normal October
Haiku
Parasols seek shelter
Courageous are umbrellas
Joust November storms
Haiku
Festive shop windows
Preen and vie for customers
Long after closing time
Haiku
Fire-works on night sky
Cannot vie with shooting stars
Quarter past twelve
Misty night seeps down
Melancholic September
Averse sky pain for the sun
Haiku
Green moss on wet wall
The northwesterly blows rain
Normal October
Haiku
Parasols seek shelter
Courageous are umbrellas
Joust November storms
Haiku
Festive shop windows
Preen and vie for customers
Long after closing time
Haiku
Fire-works on night sky
Cannot vie with shooting stars
Quarter past twelve
four senryu (s)
Senryu
Now that I’m old
No one seeks or wants my love
Except my dog
Senryu
The girl at the till
Doesn’t see me as a person
I’m just an old face
Senryu
Graveyards are places
Where old men recall their past
And remember mum
Senryu
The fear of oldness
Can only be assuaged
By senility
Now that I’m old
No one seeks or wants my love
Except my dog
Senryu
The girl at the till
Doesn’t see me as a person
I’m just an old face
Senryu
Graveyards are places
Where old men recall their past
And remember mum
Senryu
The fear of oldness
Can only be assuaged
By senility
review of my latest book "homecoming"
JAN OSKAR HANSEN
HOMECOMING...Prose, Poetry, Senryu
By a Norwegian sailor - stunning, candid reflections of a life on sea and land.
Published by Cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN 978-81-8253-121-5, First Edition, 140 pages, paperback, $15,00.
HOMECOMING is the third one of a triptych of poems: End Of A Voyage, Homeward Bound, Homecoming.
Hansen takes us on an unforgettable journey through his life as a high seas roller. An adventure of brilliant insights. His love, respect and understanding of both nature and humanity with all its foibles. He shocks us into another world with humour and pathos. All masterfully written in prose, poetry and senryu of literary signifance.
Jan Oskar Hansen makes us his shipmate and companion on a journey of a lifetime where we experience through his writing, each powerful, immediate, enlightening observations. His fresh individuality leads us to worlds of wonder, delights us in earthy pleasures with a philosophical twist. We become part of the tapestry he has woven of his multifaceted experiences.
We feel his emotions and passion for the written word as he witnesses many cultures, learns new languages and grows his imagination which is at once ‘dazzling’, thought provoking, candid, richly spiced with intimacy, dream, reality and vast visual vistas of profound awareness of nature in all its vitality.
In conclusion, here is an example of what you will find in HOMECOMING, Jan Oskar Hansen’s most recent brilliant achievement.
THE OLD TART
She’s and old tramp ship now, can’t afford to hire proper crew,
only harbour dregs, to take her to the next port. For some of us she’s home we try to keep her afloat a lick of paint here and there when it can be bought cheap or stolen from a warehouse, that’s getting hard now that all cargo are shipped by containers, locked and sealed. She was riding yellow swells, off Hock van Holland, when news come she’s to be sold as scrap iron the dregs are glad to be ashore bellies full of rum king. For us who loved the old lady it’s sad day, for us she will be the last ship, we know well that we don’t fit the new merchant navy regime, roll on roll off no time for poker and a little whisky.
SENRYU
The angry ocean
Left its irate foam behind
In secret coves
LOVES LAMENT
In the morning breeze I can hear you voice
softly calling my name
in the haze I can see
the contours of you face
In the meadow’s stream
I hear you laughter and
the water in the well is as clear as your tears
the day you said farewell
All in nature reminds me of you,
transient our love, like the flowering almond tree;
beauty never lasts and it was yesteryear.
HAPPY ENDING?
Love is overrated
The cynical sardonically say
But it keeps us sane
Literary review (2008) by Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Author, Poet, Visual Artist (Canada) based upon ‘Homecoming’, published by cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN978-81-8253-121-15 First Edition, 140 Pages, CAN$15.00
JAN OSKAR HANSEN (Portugal). His poems have been published in 20 literary magazines worldwide, including:
Hudson Review, USA, Skyline, USA, Skald, Wales, La rue Bella, England, The Bards, England, War is a dangerous place, England, The Black Mountain Review, Ireland, ARS Poetica India, India, Braquemard, England, Firefly Magazine, USA, Pphoo, India, Taj Mahal Review, India, Remark Magazine, USA, Journal of Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, England.
His poems appear in many anthologies. Collections ‘Letters from Portugal’ (bewrite books) Bristol, ‘La Strada’ Lapwing Publishers), Belfast, ‘End of Voyage’ (WFP New York), ‘Marilyn Monroe Remembered’ Erbacce Press, Liverpool, ‘The Fairground’ Ranch, India (out of print now).
BARBARA ELIZABETH MERCER (CANADA) Poet, Visual Artist, Author of 4 books of poetry published by Cyberwit,net (India), SECRETS, 2008, LEGACY, 2007, SELF PORTRAIT, 2006, MYSTIC WILLS, 2005. Co-author with Steve Chering, London, UK, book of poetry WHEN POETS COLLIDE, Pub. Lulu,com, USA, Her paintings, in Public Collections: University of Toronto Art Centre, Imperial Oil, Robert McLaughlin Gallery, Oshawa, Canada. Many international private collections.
HOMECOMING...Prose, Poetry, Senryu
By a Norwegian sailor - stunning, candid reflections of a life on sea and land.
Published by Cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN 978-81-8253-121-5, First Edition, 140 pages, paperback, $15,00.
HOMECOMING is the third one of a triptych of poems: End Of A Voyage, Homeward Bound, Homecoming.
Hansen takes us on an unforgettable journey through his life as a high seas roller. An adventure of brilliant insights. His love, respect and understanding of both nature and humanity with all its foibles. He shocks us into another world with humour and pathos. All masterfully written in prose, poetry and senryu of literary signifance.
Jan Oskar Hansen makes us his shipmate and companion on a journey of a lifetime where we experience through his writing, each powerful, immediate, enlightening observations. His fresh individuality leads us to worlds of wonder, delights us in earthy pleasures with a philosophical twist. We become part of the tapestry he has woven of his multifaceted experiences.
We feel his emotions and passion for the written word as he witnesses many cultures, learns new languages and grows his imagination which is at once ‘dazzling’, thought provoking, candid, richly spiced with intimacy, dream, reality and vast visual vistas of profound awareness of nature in all its vitality.
In conclusion, here is an example of what you will find in HOMECOMING, Jan Oskar Hansen’s most recent brilliant achievement.
THE OLD TART
She’s and old tramp ship now, can’t afford to hire proper crew,
only harbour dregs, to take her to the next port. For some of us she’s home we try to keep her afloat a lick of paint here and there when it can be bought cheap or stolen from a warehouse, that’s getting hard now that all cargo are shipped by containers, locked and sealed. She was riding yellow swells, off Hock van Holland, when news come she’s to be sold as scrap iron the dregs are glad to be ashore bellies full of rum king. For us who loved the old lady it’s sad day, for us she will be the last ship, we know well that we don’t fit the new merchant navy regime, roll on roll off no time for poker and a little whisky.
SENRYU
The angry ocean
Left its irate foam behind
In secret coves
LOVES LAMENT
In the morning breeze I can hear you voice
softly calling my name
in the haze I can see
the contours of you face
In the meadow’s stream
I hear you laughter and
the water in the well is as clear as your tears
the day you said farewell
All in nature reminds me of you,
transient our love, like the flowering almond tree;
beauty never lasts and it was yesteryear.
HAPPY ENDING?
Love is overrated
The cynical sardonically say
But it keeps us sane
Literary review (2008) by Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Author, Poet, Visual Artist (Canada) based upon ‘Homecoming’, published by cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN978-81-8253-121-15 First Edition, 140 Pages, CAN$15.00
JAN OSKAR HANSEN (Portugal). His poems have been published in 20 literary magazines worldwide, including:
Hudson Review, USA, Skyline, USA, Skald, Wales, La rue Bella, England, The Bards, England, War is a dangerous place, England, The Black Mountain Review, Ireland, ARS Poetica India, India, Braquemard, England, Firefly Magazine, USA, Pphoo, India, Taj Mahal Review, India, Remark Magazine, USA, Journal of Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, England.
His poems appear in many anthologies. Collections ‘Letters from Portugal’ (bewrite books) Bristol, ‘La Strada’ Lapwing Publishers), Belfast, ‘End of Voyage’ (WFP New York), ‘Marilyn Monroe Remembered’ Erbacce Press, Liverpool, ‘The Fairground’ Ranch, India (out of print now).
BARBARA ELIZABETH MERCER (CANADA) Poet, Visual Artist, Author of 4 books of poetry published by Cyberwit,net (India), SECRETS, 2008, LEGACY, 2007, SELF PORTRAIT, 2006, MYSTIC WILLS, 2005. Co-author with Steve Chering, London, UK, book of poetry WHEN POETS COLLIDE, Pub. Lulu,com, USA, Her paintings, in Public Collections: University of Toronto Art Centre, Imperial Oil, Robert McLaughlin Gallery, Oshawa, Canada. Many international private collections.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
machination
Machination
In my vale I hear the echo of combat,
bullets targeted forward fired by lucky
warriors who kill civilians who, with
their chattel, obscure the long view.
The right place, wrong time, blood and
bodies under canvas, tears; pledge of
vengeance. Death is clean and nattily
dressed, sport sunglasses day and night.
In my vale I hear the echo of combat,
bullets targeted forward fired by lucky
warriors who kill civilians who, with
their chattel, obscure the long view.
The right place, wrong time, blood and
bodies under canvas, tears; pledge of
vengeance. Death is clean and nattily
dressed, sport sunglasses day and night.
3 new haiku
Haiku
The vanishing act
Summer leaves the verandah
Autumn light enters
Haiku
Deepening shadows
Fallen leaves on the terrace
Time for reflections
Haiku
A summer has gone
The breeze has a chill within
Will we meet next year?
The vanishing act
Summer leaves the verandah
Autumn light enters
Haiku
Deepening shadows
Fallen leaves on the terrace
Time for reflections
Haiku
A summer has gone
The breeze has a chill within
Will we meet next year?
Monday, September 01, 2008
tanak on a string
Tanka
Translate Moor poems
From Portuguese to English
And hear the murmur,
An echo of poets’ songs
Going back a thousand years.
Tanka
Andalusia,
Once an Arabic province
Poets once lived there
Sat dreaming in lush gardens
Writing verses of lost love
Tanka
Andalusia,
Christians marched
Sun shone on bloodied swords
Moslem’s peaceful rule vanished
But poets’ verses live on
Translate Moor poems
From Portuguese to English
And hear the murmur,
An echo of poets’ songs
Going back a thousand years.
Tanka
Andalusia,
Once an Arabic province
Poets once lived there
Sat dreaming in lush gardens
Writing verses of lost love
Tanka
Andalusia,
Christians marched
Sun shone on bloodied swords
Moslem’s peaceful rule vanished
But poets’ verses live on
the sea
The Sea.
I was an orphan lost on the vast plateau
of land till I came to the coast and saw
the sea wench all beginnings sprang;
yet I swim close to shore where the sea
is clear and has no dark, mysterious spots,
she is a greedy mother her love is total;
she hates land that stole her off springs,
hammers shores and will not desist and
be at ease before all is gone.
I was an orphan lost on the vast plateau
of land till I came to the coast and saw
the sea wench all beginnings sprang;
yet I swim close to shore where the sea
is clear and has no dark, mysterious spots,
she is a greedy mother her love is total;
she hates land that stole her off springs,
hammers shores and will not desist and
be at ease before all is gone.
the orange orchard
The Orange Orchard.
Original title “A Laranjeira”
By IBN Sara
Written ca ( 1123)
As wood burning bright
trees stand fruit partly
hidden coloured dots in
shadow of a green curtains
The fruit hang on a delicate
thread and silently tell of those
who have suffered and suffer
for love
I see an orange orchard as
a place that shows its fruit
as red tears of who have endured
the torments of love
Tears petrified now, yet
with depth of pain
that reaches deep the soil making
it fertile for lovers.
Corneal fruit amongst
foliage that shines as topaz,
in your hand, as sapphire,
when cut in half.
Sometimes we kiss the fruit,
other times we inhale its aroma
like it should be the beautiful
face of a lass or the perfumed
breast of a woman.
Original title “A Laranjeira”
By IBN Sara
Written ca ( 1123)
As wood burning bright
trees stand fruit partly
hidden coloured dots in
shadow of a green curtains
The fruit hang on a delicate
thread and silently tell of those
who have suffered and suffer
for love
I see an orange orchard as
a place that shows its fruit
as red tears of who have endured
the torments of love
Tears petrified now, yet
with depth of pain
that reaches deep the soil making
it fertile for lovers.
Corneal fruit amongst
foliage that shines as topaz,
in your hand, as sapphire,
when cut in half.
Sometimes we kiss the fruit,
other times we inhale its aroma
like it should be the beautiful
face of a lass or the perfumed
breast of a woman.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)