India by Chance.
India, Madras I think, our plane landed for refuelling, I was
member of a crew going to Japan to join a new ship, this was
seen as honour, although we were low paid, (it was easy to
fool us back then.) At a hotel near the airport we’re told to
stay in our air conditioned rooms that stank of air that had
gone through hundreds of travellers lungs. Wilful and bored
I broke rank, walked outside, got lost in the mêlée of poor
people and warm humanity. Drank tea in tiny shops and read
poetry I had hidden in my heart, away from sarcastic teachers
and mocking, giggling siblings. India has changed, so have I,
now it has the world biggest middle class, I read; but the poor
still sleep on pavements, drink tea and dream timidly of being
a part of new wondrous times, while half listening to the blind
storyteller’s yarn of yore.
A Sonnet (San Suu Kyu)
Aung San Suu Kyu the fragrant daughter of a Burmese
general is a scented lovely lady. Four years ago when
she was 60 I wrote her a poem and it disappeared into
the www. It’s her dignity and silence I find compelling
I wouldn’t mind waking up in the morning and find her
face on the pillow beside me. Yes, I know call me what
ever you want, had she looked like Hillary Clinton, I
would have protested against 18 month house arrest
but my heart wouldn’t have been involved; now I feel
as I’m losing her forever and I will never meet her and
and say the three words I have waited so long to say.
She is a symbol of peace and democracy, ok so I leave
the politics up to you, all I want her to do is to see me
smile and recognize my love for her.
Lost in Athens
Athens, confusing in August, what with the heat and pollution I had spent
the night sitting on a park bench, looking at a white wall lit up by moonlight,
waiting for a movie, any movie, to begin. Forenoon, staggered into a church,
joined a queue, a priest was handing out paper bags of sweet cakes, the old
lady behind got none since she had been in the line three times. I ate a cake
and gave the rest to the lady. Grateful she ate the cakes blew up the bag and
hit it against a tree and we were surrounded by an anti terrorist squad.
The lady, a known ,would be terrorist, had been blowing up paper bags all
over town, was arrested, they were going to arrest me too since I had supplied
the bag, but since I was a tourist they let me go with a warning.
Deep in the park I found a grotto, walked in and saw baby Jesus inside a small
aquarium, he appeared like a dead angel as painted by Caravaggio, his Jesus
opened his eyes smiled like, a street urchin selling himself to pederasts, and
began masturbating, chocked I took a step back and collided with two nuns who
laughed hysterically. Escaped, found a cellar bar drank ouzo served by a woman
who looked like a horse; she was a pony that had escaped from a Swedish circus.
We hit it off I have always been fond of horses, especially since according to an
Indian chief in, an Alice Walker’s poem I have forgotten the title of, who says
horses make the landscape more beautiful. Midnight she shut her bar, bareback
we rode through Athens mysterious night.
A Famous Garden
Montreal Gardens, tame nature we want it to be, a happy place
where nothing stings bees are friendly myopic insects.
How very nice it is, hedges cut to look like camels, animals made
of flowers, and ducks that forever are taking off as they too are
made of plant stuff and never crap on green grass.
I walk in a landscape untended by man, some trees are ugly and
some are beautiful; hedges are wild growing bushes with thorns
the size of tigers claws, rabbits, foxes and boars are made of flesh
and blood and many of them die come hunting time, but I would
not trade the Montreal Gardens or the Kew’s for the real thing,
a nature that makes no compromise; will not turn self into a sort
of middleclass gardeners’ dream of an adult’s Disney land.
Dance Nocturne
August night is a hellhole, hot as the day and
wind that blows comes from a fiery furnace.
Open windows in dark interior primal the cry of
lovemaking, sounds like hate, and wrestling
sweaty, wriggling bodies produce a child that
soon will die, but first it has to go through the same
sick ritual as its parents, what we call love, but
is a primitive urge, copulation the planting of
a seedling before sinking back underground,
spent forgotten; in mass graves of boredom,
decorated with flowers that radiate the smell
of deaths to come. The Tasmanian tiger howls
to the moon, vanishes forever into an ancient
forest, but man dance and fuck the night away.
Senryu
Armageddon has gone
When it arrived I slept
Did I miss much?
Tanka (without rules)
In US, the rich live long
The poor die young,
This is quite normal
Why should the haves feed
The not haves?
Tanka
White foam on azure sea
Spindrift, brother of the cloud
Spins a magic rug
On which we can forever fly
Till fairytales come true
September Rain (sonnet)
Most days, on my way to the bar or grocer`s
I walk past an old man who sits in the shade of
an oak, on a creaky sofa that has lost its place in
the lounge. I usually stop and talk to him, he can’t
remember me from one day to the next, tells me
the same story about his parents, and where he
grew up; Portugal of yore. He isn’t here today, only
the mantle, he wraps around himself when there
is a chill in the air, is flung on the old sofa; a zephyr
whispers that he will not be back. “Will I be that old?
I ask the waning sun. I sit on a sofa on the terrace,
a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, scan the sky,
in the vale where I live and my parents too lived,
we wait for September rain.
NHSIn Alexandria (US) I met a man by the docks
he had a grows in his stomach, belly full of
water, cancer, surgery acute. I tried to raise
some money managed only a lousy hundred
dollars in crumbled unwilling notes.
Saw the man again in a club, I was feeling
sorry for him. He hadn’t cheated me,
the money was not enough, so he spent them
drinking Ca champagne; died from an illness
he did, only money could cure.
Erection
August heat I sent in a comment to an article in the Guardian,
dislike many of their readers, but it is a good paper, even if it
tends to lose its nerves and waffle a bit when the pressure is on.
I look to see if anything is written about lack of erection, not long
ago my member could carry a beach towel, a party trick for one
witness, now it will not even carry a paper napkin. I could write
and ask the woman who is married to a comedian and has a sexual
healing column in the Guardian, only I don`t like her much I think
she’s fraud; and the comedian she married stop being funny after
he dastardly divorced his first wife and married her. When working
class people are successful they tend to marry “up” that is because
they meet lots of new and well spoken people, who flatter them,
but they are wrong they will be sandpapered down lose their strength
to suit the middle class taste; rich they will be, so who cares?
Lonely Is the Famous
Once I met Cliff Richard, he came into a newsagent’s
bought a paper, a broadsheet, perhaps that makes
him an intellectual, what do I know? He nodded my
way and smiled; mind, he smiled to everyone. He is
a professional showman for him smiling comes easy.
He had plenty of hair, slim, no unsightly beer belly like
me, and I felt a sense of envy till I noticed the cape of
loneliness he wore and wished I could help moderate
the desolation that dulled his eyes, when he briefly let
down his guard. Poor Cliff, sits at home, alone, sips his
own wine and dreams of happy holidays.
August Tanka
Heat cracks the phone pole
Lost voices seep down as tears
But dries in the sun
White streaks of intense sorrow
A lover`s words go unheard.
The Successful Angler
By the river I sit a bamboo pole and wriggling
worms to thread on a hook, but I hadn’t got
around to it yet. I don’t like fishing, bloody trout.
why do they do they have to bite my hook?
I have to pull them out of the water wring their
neck and be a superman.
Others are amazed, wants to know my secret
But I have none. I let the wet worms escape in
the grass. Anglers are coming down to the brook,
I throw my bamboo into the water and escape;
fish eyes have been crowding my dreams too
long, I want to be free.
Selling Poetry
Painting exhibition tonight a seven, I came before
the show they let me leave some poetry books
behind. “Just put them there”, a man said pointing
to a shelf, I will tend to your stuff later.” In the kitchen
a cook was making elegant canapés, hungry I left.
Next day`s paper said the exhibition it had been
a great success, I rang asked if any of my books had
been sold; they said some books had gone missing,
possible stolen, none had been sold though; grateful
for small mercies, I secretly thanked the thieves.
August Night
Black, starless late August sky, a sliver of moon,
golden scythe mowing down the old, harvest
time. They had forgotten to close windows and
chill will settle in old lungs, spitting of blood.
Church bells toll the day is hot and gives nothing
away, the old priest is still on holiday, the new
one is clumsy, hasn’t had a bath and a shave for
days; unspoken murmur of discontent.
The cleric sweats, there is a smell of brandy, one
of the church’s rejects? But they do take care of
their own. This isn’t swine flu, nothing to report,
just old people dying as they must.
Tanka
Opened the curtain
Dawn’s light got stuck in my eyes
Intense brilliance
Furniture became the foe
Slept on the carpet till noon
Tanka (boredom?)
Lived in dad’s house
He had fled the August heat
I looked after it
Little to do, drank brandy
And dynamited his abode
Friends
A black cat wears a fixed smile, watches
as an express train, that has no doors,
runs into a tunnel where concrete and
water fall from the ceiling.
It is very cold the cat wears a silk scarf
and its best friend is a tame shark, that
lives in a pond, is cold too; starves also
it has bitten off the hand of its feeder.
We, the smart people, avoid door-less
trains, we fly instead and, like donkeys,
suffer in silence the indignity of airports.
where stars are tinkling cell phones.
The black cat meows it sits in a shoe
made of tiger shark leather, feels comfy
since it is raining outside also a tad sad,
the shark used to be its best friend.
Tanka
Because of love
I became an almond tree
Ugly in winters
Come spring I wear pink flowers
And strew them on your path
Monday, August 24, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
bank Robber
Bank Robber
A man, in a small Texan town, robbed its
only bank, then stuck his gun in his mouth
and took himself hostage. Outside, when
asked to free the hostage, he took the gun
out of his mouth to answer and was shot
dead by the sheriff.
A man, in a small Texan town, robbed its
only bank, then stuck his gun in his mouth
and took himself hostage. Outside, when
asked to free the hostage, he took the gun
out of his mouth to answer and was shot
dead by the sheriff.
senryu
Senryu
As a lone street lamp
Sways in wind and winter rain
A drunk, staggers home
Senryu
Yellow bellied moon
Timid hid behind a cloud
‘Cause an owl hooted.
Senryu
Fuming August sun
Feels bitterly let down
By life it created
As a lone street lamp
Sways in wind and winter rain
A drunk, staggers home
Senryu
Yellow bellied moon
Timid hid behind a cloud
‘Cause an owl hooted.
Senryu
Fuming August sun
Feels bitterly let down
By life it created
senryu
Senryu
Destitute dog
Snoozes on the graveyard’s lawn
But leaves at sunset
Senryu
The Carob tree’s fruit
Strong elongated and black
Cotton pickers’ hands
Senryu
On a vacant beach
A bottle of suntan oil
Can be seen for miles
Destitute dog
Snoozes on the graveyard’s lawn
But leaves at sunset
Senryu
The Carob tree’s fruit
Strong elongated and black
Cotton pickers’ hands
Senryu
On a vacant beach
A bottle of suntan oil
Can be seen for miles
lovers lake
Lovers Lake (sonnet)
The lake we swam in was manmade, not a big lake
consisting mostly of rainwater, insipid to bathe in,
but it didn’t have unsafe undercurrents or unsavoury
things in its profundity. In May and June the tarn
was grey/blue but as summer lasted and little water
flowed into it, the mere turned muddy and by August
it was as brown as the leaves on the almond tree.
May is a good time to fall in love Trine and I used
to sit by the loch’s shore and talk about her future,
she had great plans that didn’t include me, but she
mysteriously vanished, gone overseas it was said.
Winters with no rain followed, the lake was reduced
to a hole in the ground and used as landfill; an odd
love story had come to an end under tons of debris.
The lake we swam in was manmade, not a big lake
consisting mostly of rainwater, insipid to bathe in,
but it didn’t have unsafe undercurrents or unsavoury
things in its profundity. In May and June the tarn
was grey/blue but as summer lasted and little water
flowed into it, the mere turned muddy and by August
it was as brown as the leaves on the almond tree.
May is a good time to fall in love Trine and I used
to sit by the loch’s shore and talk about her future,
she had great plans that didn’t include me, but she
mysteriously vanished, gone overseas it was said.
Winters with no rain followed, the lake was reduced
to a hole in the ground and used as landfill; an odd
love story had come to an end under tons of debris.
Paratrooper
The Paratrooper
I was falling through air so dense I couldn’t see a thing, opened up
my big, black umbrella and descended in orderly fashion.
A scythe of a moon gave enough light so I could see the coastline
and the dark, menacing sea waiting to fill my lungs with water, but
by manipulating the umbrella I landed safely on the beach, folded
my collapsible canopy and got away as foam of greed tried to reach
me. To get home I had to walk through a mono cultural nightmare,
a forest of orange trees, every dismal plant the same height, dark
green and silent, they bore nothing but yellow fruit no one bothered
to pick since the land was drowning in sticky orange juice and no gin.
I was walking uphill now, downhill too but mostly up, from a hilltop
I could see my cottage; noticed light was on in the yard and in
The night air heard the desultory din of an airplane circling around
looking for a missing passenger.
I was falling through air so dense I couldn’t see a thing, opened up
my big, black umbrella and descended in orderly fashion.
A scythe of a moon gave enough light so I could see the coastline
and the dark, menacing sea waiting to fill my lungs with water, but
by manipulating the umbrella I landed safely on the beach, folded
my collapsible canopy and got away as foam of greed tried to reach
me. To get home I had to walk through a mono cultural nightmare,
a forest of orange trees, every dismal plant the same height, dark
green and silent, they bore nothing but yellow fruit no one bothered
to pick since the land was drowning in sticky orange juice and no gin.
I was walking uphill now, downhill too but mostly up, from a hilltop
I could see my cottage; noticed light was on in the yard and in
The night air heard the desultory din of an airplane circling around
looking for a missing passenger.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
when lov e strikes
When Love Strikes.
It was a one sided love story naturally it pleased her to be adored
but it was not me she really wanted, I read in her smile and in
her loves sigh a story I was not a part of. And I was blind didn’t see
the subtle signs, the dreamy looks she had when she mention
another man’s name too often.
August moon at the marina, he was dressed in blazer and had a
a captain’s cap on, he looked dashing and asked me if he could
dance with her, they danced forever and I could see how happy
she was, there was plenty to drink and eat and fairy lights made
me quite dizzy and when dawn arrived I sat alone on a pollard
and saw the morning sun dance on calm water.
I had a long walk home and thought both of them had been quite
Dishonest and my anger and resentment swelled, but I could not
Help see her eyes had a shine of love, so I had to let it go
It was a one sided love story naturally it pleased her to be adored
but it was not me she really wanted, I read in her smile and in
her loves sigh a story I was not a part of. And I was blind didn’t see
the subtle signs, the dreamy looks she had when she mention
another man’s name too often.
August moon at the marina, he was dressed in blazer and had a
a captain’s cap on, he looked dashing and asked me if he could
dance with her, they danced forever and I could see how happy
she was, there was plenty to drink and eat and fairy lights made
me quite dizzy and when dawn arrived I sat alone on a pollard
and saw the morning sun dance on calm water.
I had a long walk home and thought both of them had been quite
Dishonest and my anger and resentment swelled, but I could not
Help see her eyes had a shine of love, so I had to let it go
august Mood
August Mood
Rumours has it that she has died and
I have not the courage to go find out.
What I remember of her goes back
fifteen years and the world is no longer
the same; especially not here, in this
transient tourist place, where no one is
remembered long and misfits settle till
they find this place is no paradise and
seek other shores for their impossible
dreams. I will rest easy in my cowardice
and do nothing. but remember her and
a summer of yore.
Rumours has it that she has died and
I have not the courage to go find out.
What I remember of her goes back
fifteen years and the world is no longer
the same; especially not here, in this
transient tourist place, where no one is
remembered long and misfits settle till
they find this place is no paradise and
seek other shores for their impossible
dreams. I will rest easy in my cowardice
and do nothing. but remember her and
a summer of yore.
various stuff
The Seeker
I saw a bushy tailed fox, running rabbits and
a boar in a bush landscape one can so easily
get lost in, I once did and panic stricken
stumbled about till I fell on to the main road.
I was looking for words or sentences, today
something that can make life easy, all I have
to do is to go home, write down what I have
found. Should I be so lucky!
There are many individual letters, strewn like
pebbles on my path, hang in trees like leaves
falling dawn in the wind. Clouds, on the blue
sky, made letters too, a B here and an A there,
saw a Q near the horizon; BAQ? Means little
to me, perhaps it is an Arab word for peace?
Struggled up a hill sun is heating up the day,
for lunch I’m having alphabet soup.
Drones (wingless pilot)
Breakfast was served by a man without teeth when
he smiled and wished me good morning I thought of
burnt out villages in Afghanistan strafed by a drone
steered by a pilot who sits miles away; he presses
a button, blows up the cottage where the terrorist
lives with his family.
The guilty and blameless die together, it doesn’t
matter as long as the bad guy was taken out.
The drone’s pilot goes for his lunch in the air force
canteen; in the evening, after a day’s rebel hunting,
goes home make love to his wife and play video
games with his children.
One Man in a Boat
In a rowboat on the south Atlantic sea, a vast expanse
that appeared to slant downwards and towards Argentine.
A big, beautiful seabird sits at the bow watching me, dogs
can have kind eyes, never met a bird that has, and this
particular bird was dissecting me wanted to slurp my eyes
and wondered how my liver looked like, boozy if you ask
me. It’s getting dark I see a big liner- the birds sees it too
and flies off to a richer feeding ground -, lit up like fairies’
garden party, full of people who think they are audacious,
I hear dim echo of music the ship’s band plays a bordello
tango. If the ship’s radar sees me and I’m rescued the rich
and bored will have something to talk about, applaud her
captain and when the ship docks he will be given a medal,
his name and photo in the news, but will anyone bother to
ask what the hell I, all by myself, was doing in the middle of
the South Atlantic Sea?
Senryu
An Agnostic’s nightmare
Wakes him up every night
He dreams god exist
Senryu
An orange tree
In an apple orchard
Isn’t overlooked
Senryu
Since giraffes have
Sixteen litre lung capacity
Let them sing opera
Senryu
Everyone loves
A lemon tree
In an apple orchard
Nature’s little Helper
Right there on the track, by my feet, a boa constrictor
was rolling around squishing a hare, it was not
a loving embrace. I stopped this murderous scene
and separated the two. The snake hissed balefully and
crawled into the bushes, the hare sat there stunned
not knowing if it was alive or dead. But something had
snapped in its head for it turned and attacked me; I had
to fight it off with my cane. The snake, the only witness
to my humiliation, decided I was a total idiot, it came
slithering back nabbed its prey and began crushing it to
death again. Wait there is more, an eagle swooped took
the snake, up in the air they all went, the snake had to
let go of the hare, which fell down in front of me; and
I, to avoid further indignity, killed it with my cane.
Ornaments
A big stone under a carob tree, full of holes made
by winters rain, through some of the holes plants
with tiny red flowers grew. Partly in the shade but
sunlight filtered through leaves; beings made of
day and night, danced a sinful tango on the stone.
I look around want to share this moment, but I’m
stubbornly alone, except for the carrion that flies
above me, it waits for me to stumble, fall or get
lost in the arid landscape. A work of art wanted to
take it home, the stone was too heavy and, anyway,
I could not recreate the dancing; I left it for other
walkers to find, admire the stone, but not taking it
away thinking it would look nice as an ornament in
the garden.
Senryu
Is verbal parsimony
Masquerading as haiku
Vacant poetry?
Senryu
Is, in pale moonlight,
Lilies in the garden pond
Ghosts of sailors past?
Senryu
The depraved rose
That shines on a man’s lapel
Is cast off’s at dawn.
Tanka
If you see the poor
In your leafy neighbourhood
Buy them a bus-ticket
So they can see our great land
And settle somewhere else.
Senryu
The demise’s grief... is
My total inability
To retell it
Bio
Jan Oskar Hansen is a Norwegian, but not a Norwegian poet.
he has written several collections and his poems appear in
many anthologies. Mr. Hansen has written all his work using
English words and has ended up with a language which has
The flavour of the language used and how it echoed in
narrow street and up unpainted factory walls of his youth
Mr. Hansen has no poet who was his ideal, except Hemingway
and he wasn’t a poet, so his work only echo his own thought
and he has never attempted to belong to any school or style
of writing . When you read his work you will find his grammar
and syntax different from what you are used to, but when
you realise that no attempt has been sought to please you,
I think you will enjoy his work
I saw a bushy tailed fox, running rabbits and
a boar in a bush landscape one can so easily
get lost in, I once did and panic stricken
stumbled about till I fell on to the main road.
I was looking for words or sentences, today
something that can make life easy, all I have
to do is to go home, write down what I have
found. Should I be so lucky!
There are many individual letters, strewn like
pebbles on my path, hang in trees like leaves
falling dawn in the wind. Clouds, on the blue
sky, made letters too, a B here and an A there,
saw a Q near the horizon; BAQ? Means little
to me, perhaps it is an Arab word for peace?
Struggled up a hill sun is heating up the day,
for lunch I’m having alphabet soup.
Drones (wingless pilot)
Breakfast was served by a man without teeth when
he smiled and wished me good morning I thought of
burnt out villages in Afghanistan strafed by a drone
steered by a pilot who sits miles away; he presses
a button, blows up the cottage where the terrorist
lives with his family.
The guilty and blameless die together, it doesn’t
matter as long as the bad guy was taken out.
The drone’s pilot goes for his lunch in the air force
canteen; in the evening, after a day’s rebel hunting,
goes home make love to his wife and play video
games with his children.
One Man in a Boat
In a rowboat on the south Atlantic sea, a vast expanse
that appeared to slant downwards and towards Argentine.
A big, beautiful seabird sits at the bow watching me, dogs
can have kind eyes, never met a bird that has, and this
particular bird was dissecting me wanted to slurp my eyes
and wondered how my liver looked like, boozy if you ask
me. It’s getting dark I see a big liner- the birds sees it too
and flies off to a richer feeding ground -, lit up like fairies’
garden party, full of people who think they are audacious,
I hear dim echo of music the ship’s band plays a bordello
tango. If the ship’s radar sees me and I’m rescued the rich
and bored will have something to talk about, applaud her
captain and when the ship docks he will be given a medal,
his name and photo in the news, but will anyone bother to
ask what the hell I, all by myself, was doing in the middle of
the South Atlantic Sea?
Senryu
An Agnostic’s nightmare
Wakes him up every night
He dreams god exist
Senryu
An orange tree
In an apple orchard
Isn’t overlooked
Senryu
Since giraffes have
Sixteen litre lung capacity
Let them sing opera
Senryu
Everyone loves
A lemon tree
In an apple orchard
Nature’s little Helper
Right there on the track, by my feet, a boa constrictor
was rolling around squishing a hare, it was not
a loving embrace. I stopped this murderous scene
and separated the two. The snake hissed balefully and
crawled into the bushes, the hare sat there stunned
not knowing if it was alive or dead. But something had
snapped in its head for it turned and attacked me; I had
to fight it off with my cane. The snake, the only witness
to my humiliation, decided I was a total idiot, it came
slithering back nabbed its prey and began crushing it to
death again. Wait there is more, an eagle swooped took
the snake, up in the air they all went, the snake had to
let go of the hare, which fell down in front of me; and
I, to avoid further indignity, killed it with my cane.
Ornaments
A big stone under a carob tree, full of holes made
by winters rain, through some of the holes plants
with tiny red flowers grew. Partly in the shade but
sunlight filtered through leaves; beings made of
day and night, danced a sinful tango on the stone.
I look around want to share this moment, but I’m
stubbornly alone, except for the carrion that flies
above me, it waits for me to stumble, fall or get
lost in the arid landscape. A work of art wanted to
take it home, the stone was too heavy and, anyway,
I could not recreate the dancing; I left it for other
walkers to find, admire the stone, but not taking it
away thinking it would look nice as an ornament in
the garden.
Senryu
Is verbal parsimony
Masquerading as haiku
Vacant poetry?
Senryu
Is, in pale moonlight,
Lilies in the garden pond
Ghosts of sailors past?
Senryu
The depraved rose
That shines on a man’s lapel
Is cast off’s at dawn.
Tanka
If you see the poor
In your leafy neighbourhood
Buy them a bus-ticket
So they can see our great land
And settle somewhere else.
Senryu
The demise’s grief... is
My total inability
To retell it
Bio
Jan Oskar Hansen is a Norwegian, but not a Norwegian poet.
he has written several collections and his poems appear in
many anthologies. Mr. Hansen has written all his work using
English words and has ended up with a language which has
The flavour of the language used and how it echoed in
narrow street and up unpainted factory walls of his youth
Mr. Hansen has no poet who was his ideal, except Hemingway
and he wasn’t a poet, so his work only echo his own thought
and he has never attempted to belong to any school or style
of writing . When you read his work you will find his grammar
and syntax different from what you are used to, but when
you realise that no attempt has been sought to please you,
I think you will enjoy his work
likely
A Likely Story
She was a swan the way she tackled the swells whether on
Atlantic Sea or the Pacific Ocean, alas she was old had seen her
best days, but she was nicely painted and for us she was home.
Wouldn’t that be a nice story to tell? The owner didn’t want to
spend money crewing her, what we got were harbour rats, and
her officers had gone all the way down from new ships, to this
last chance saloon. Tired men, no way back, fuck this job up and
there is only the cold sea; so we struggled from one obscure
port to the next often in a mist of rum. Seafarer, of the fairy isle,
close your cabin door, bow your head and cry.
Yes, she was our home which we also shared with five million
cockroaches and no money for insect spray; keep the light on
man, they only crawl over you face and up your nose in the dark;
and then she was sold to the Greeks and we’re made homeless.
On the docks of Piraeus a group of men with quivering hands,
old fashioned suitcases, and suits in need of a dry cleaner, what
now my friends? Never saw them again, but when I opened my
suitcase at the B&B hotel two roaches had followed me ashore,
they were alive and quickly found dark corners, like me they had
voyages the seven oceans and lived to tell a tale.
She was a swan the way she tackled the swells whether on
Atlantic Sea or the Pacific Ocean, alas she was old had seen her
best days, but she was nicely painted and for us she was home.
Wouldn’t that be a nice story to tell? The owner didn’t want to
spend money crewing her, what we got were harbour rats, and
her officers had gone all the way down from new ships, to this
last chance saloon. Tired men, no way back, fuck this job up and
there is only the cold sea; so we struggled from one obscure
port to the next often in a mist of rum. Seafarer, of the fairy isle,
close your cabin door, bow your head and cry.
Yes, she was our home which we also shared with five million
cockroaches and no money for insect spray; keep the light on
man, they only crawl over you face and up your nose in the dark;
and then she was sold to the Greeks and we’re made homeless.
On the docks of Piraeus a group of men with quivering hands,
old fashioned suitcases, and suits in need of a dry cleaner, what
now my friends? Never saw them again, but when I opened my
suitcase at the B&B hotel two roaches had followed me ashore,
they were alive and quickly found dark corners, like me they had
voyages the seven oceans and lived to tell a tale.
assertivesness
Assertiveness
It is very hot I have switched off the air-condition and
opened up windows, it is supposed to be hot in July.
I hadn’t wanted to buy air- cooling in the first place,
I’m too placid and get swayed to do the wrong things.
I sit on the terrace in a plastic chair that is easy to
move around I used to have had a chair of real wood
before I liked more, but it was given to someone poor;
I think about it and get upset I ought to put my foot
down and say: No! Summers past I sat in my heavy
timber chair and smoked my cigarettes, the burn kept
mosquitoes away, now it is frown upon and I dastardly
quit, but I do have a packet of fags in the desk drawer;
maybe if I get pissed off enough by the virtuous, I’ll lit
up and enjoy my August nights.
It is very hot I have switched off the air-condition and
opened up windows, it is supposed to be hot in July.
I hadn’t wanted to buy air- cooling in the first place,
I’m too placid and get swayed to do the wrong things.
I sit on the terrace in a plastic chair that is easy to
move around I used to have had a chair of real wood
before I liked more, but it was given to someone poor;
I think about it and get upset I ought to put my foot
down and say: No! Summers past I sat in my heavy
timber chair and smoked my cigarettes, the burn kept
mosquitoes away, now it is frown upon and I dastardly
quit, but I do have a packet of fags in the desk drawer;
maybe if I get pissed off enough by the virtuous, I’ll lit
up and enjoy my August nights.
senryu
Senryu
Slept all night
Long dreamless hours
I feel cheated
Senryu
For my roses
Mild precipitation
Is liquid love
Senryu
After the cremation
We smoked cigarettes
Smoulder and ash.
Senryu
Uniform orange plants
In a Florida orchard camp
Covet lemon trees
Slept all night
Long dreamless hours
I feel cheated
Senryu
For my roses
Mild precipitation
Is liquid love
Senryu
After the cremation
We smoked cigarettes
Smoulder and ash.
Senryu
Uniform orange plants
In a Florida orchard camp
Covet lemon trees
a summer night
A Summer Night.
A Bergman movie had an old man running in
the hall senseless, gripped by an irrational fear
of death. I sat by the bed pearls of sweat ran
down my butter coloured body, summer, but
all can hear is the ticking of the kitchen clock.
To witness a day’s passing gave me no pleasure
this insistent march towards timelessness and
there is nothing to hold on, a moment’s respite,
or love to assuage the vortex’s relentless terror.
Dog awakes, hears steps too light for my ears,
a night visitor and I’m alone and without a god.
No, not here, the cur loses interest goes back to
sleep. Night is an enemy; the shift is nearly over,
I walk out on the terrace and wait for the day.
A Bergman movie had an old man running in
the hall senseless, gripped by an irrational fear
of death. I sat by the bed pearls of sweat ran
down my butter coloured body, summer, but
all can hear is the ticking of the kitchen clock.
To witness a day’s passing gave me no pleasure
this insistent march towards timelessness and
there is nothing to hold on, a moment’s respite,
or love to assuage the vortex’s relentless terror.
Dog awakes, hears steps too light for my ears,
a night visitor and I’m alone and without a god.
No, not here, the cur loses interest goes back to
sleep. Night is an enemy; the shift is nearly over,
I walk out on the terrace and wait for the day.
a village in Iberia
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else?”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I need of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else?”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I need of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
the cruise
The Cruise
At a corner, in the inner harbour where unseemly debris
tend to float about, three men- in a rowing boat- sit and
drink beer. It is a lovely summer evening they fall asleep.
In the morning there are only two of them the third must
have gone home. The two agree that their friend was old
so they go ashore with the empty crate of beer and buy
some more beer. Midsummer now and it is good to sit in
boats, with a friend drink beer and talk about old days.
Daybreak, only one man left in the boat, the lone one
shrugs, his friends have no stamina so he lugs the empty
crate of beer for refill to the shop. This summer is endless,
the weather holds and a boy spots a rowing boat with no
one onboard except an empty crate of ale which he takes
to the shop and sell. At the bottom of the sea, in the inner
harbour where unseemly debris tend float, three old men
sway in the sea’s gentle heave in an everlasting summer.
At a corner, in the inner harbour where unseemly debris
tend to float about, three men- in a rowing boat- sit and
drink beer. It is a lovely summer evening they fall asleep.
In the morning there are only two of them the third must
have gone home. The two agree that their friend was old
so they go ashore with the empty crate of beer and buy
some more beer. Midsummer now and it is good to sit in
boats, with a friend drink beer and talk about old days.
Daybreak, only one man left in the boat, the lone one
shrugs, his friends have no stamina so he lugs the empty
crate of beer for refill to the shop. This summer is endless,
the weather holds and a boy spots a rowing boat with no
one onboard except an empty crate of ale which he takes
to the shop and sell. At the bottom of the sea, in the inner
harbour where unseemly debris tend float, three old men
sway in the sea’s gentle heave in an everlasting summer.
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