the mind's landscape

The Mind’s Landscape

Collector of dry roses, that’s what you are,
in the mirror of tricks, your smile is of derision.
Seeker of the barren land where black goats
eat thorny roses.

Laughed they did when slewed the soil refused
to drink their life… a pool of darkening ruby
on yellow straws and angry glares of troll’s
blue eye.

Dweller, go back into your cave, contorted
you’re in the mirror of life, rimfrost on green grass
you’re breath’s an angst ridden screams of fear
as life passes you by.

Rendezvous

Rendezvous


Cloudy, with rain, New York in October; dusk I stood outside
Radio City Music Hall and waited for no one in particular.
Jack Dempsey was walking by he had a strong masculine face,
smiled to everyone, which made sense, as everybody knew him,
beside him walked Alan Ladd, a tiny man with a big man’s face.

I felt like an inhabited, lonely island in a stream, “Hemingway?”
“No, not at all, and let me finish. A sea of people parted in front of
me joined up again, as a mighty river behind me that flowed down
the sidewalk reaching a group of excited, people, clicking cameras and flashlight that lit up even the faces of the notorious.

And there was Marilyn walking towards me, but as she came so
near that I could touch her; I was pushed aside by rude journalists who shouted silly questions at her: “Are you getting married?
Who’s your latest boyfriend?” I was her boyfriend, we had a secret understanding. Marilyn didn’t see me that twilight moment, but her perfume dreamily swirled around me as I entered the cinema to see Casablanca

News Items

Rome News.

The Vatican is a landlord who wants to evict the poor
From their rented homes, so the church can re-rent its
Property to the middles class, at a higher prize; without
The poor, the church is a defunct, a fading irrelevance.



Berlin News.

In Germany each civil servants uses 8 sheets of toilet
Paper a day, with exception of the ministry of defense
There they use 8.8 sheets a day, we can grasp that, but
Why are we being fed this stream of irrelevant news?



Norwegian News.

To give Al Gore, a man who didn’t have the stomach
To fight for his presidency, the Nobel Peace Prize was
A populist certainty. But what else can one except of
A country that also gave the prize to Henry Kissinger?

Wildlife pleasure

Wildlife Pleasure.

Tonight they serve giraffe neck, at the long
table in the restaurant, for fifty invited guests,
left over will be given to the poor who have
brought tin plates and metal spoons they bang
together to get attention and to make music.

They chatter about last week’s big meal when
a grilled gorilla was served at the round table,
with small oblong potatoes, rich gravy and
French wines but only for the chosen fifty.

Those outside were offered wine labels of
empty bottles to take home and decorate their
walls. Hippo stuffed with lions heart will be
next week’s menu, for afters monkey brains
sweetened with sherry Amontillado.

Haiku

Senryu

To live sans regrets?
Possible if your heart is cold
And compassion’s frozen


Haiku

Summer is still here
Hoof it up from noon till five
As October sleeps


Haiku

Morning, yet still dark
Daylight hides in the basement
Thunder rules O.K.



Senryu

When Castro was young
Few cars drove on Cuba’s roads
Still driving though.

Motorway Driving

Motorway Driving

After driving on the new motorway, called autostrada here,
I began to panic; there was endlessness about it no beginning
no end, no exit, I was trapped forever doomed to drive fast
for no reason whatsoever, I began to see spirits of those who
had driven too fast, as holistic beings perpetually repeating
the accident that made them unseen, I heard metal shrieking
in a heart rendering agony only things made of earth can do,
unlike plastic that is a product of deadness and suffers no pain.
Blood filled my windscreen first as drops, then it became as
tropical rain, a deluge, a river of blood of the innocent and
the guilty, all expendable figures, as we tacitly accept this;
the automobile is power the whole society, all what we are, is
built on this shaky foundation. But we know nothing else and
will continue till the last drop of oil is extracted from the soil.
And as we sink into nihilistic despair the gypsy will continue
his slow progress, cart & horse, across the green landscape of
eternity

the witness

The Witness

Doorbell rang, a police officer was selling tickets for some
do, forgotten what, he wore a smile, but was also armed, so
I bought a ticket. I admired his gun, told me he practiced
every day and was a crack shot. “Can you hit the tomcat that
crosses the road?” (The cat belonged to the nasty woman in
the house opposite mine?) “No problem,” drew his gun, shot
once and the cat rolled in the dust.

The woman came out she had a shotgun, aimed it at the officer
who ran to his car calling for back ups, she missed and went
back into the house. Five minutes later 24 patrol car drove up,
sirens and screeching tires arrived first; every car drove over
the cat till there was but some loose fur flying in the wind and
48 shooters were pointing at the woman’s front door; local TV
was also present, this was a scoop.

“Come out lady, we know you are in there, you have tried to
kill one of our officers.” “He shot my cat, she said.“ “We can
see no cat in the road, there is a bit of a tail here but that can
belong to a raccoon, or we’ll throw a stun grenade through
the window, your hair will be a mess and we know you have
been to the hairdresser for a perm this morning, a grenade”
will mess it all up again”

The lady came out, saw me in the doorway and said:
“He is my witness, he saw it all.” 48 blue uniforms and 48
guns glared at me, I shook my head, in denial, made a shrug,
the woman is mad, and closed the door. The judge was lenient,
the lady is middleclass, her husband wear a suit and works in
a bank; he let her off with a caution, smiled and gave her tiny
a kitten, and everyone, in courthouse day, cried and applauded.

a Lament

A Lament


I have bought an air-condition unit for the kitchen,
It hangs there high up on the wall making me feel
Prosperous, the women in the village have been in
Seeing it, since I used to be a chef and do bake my
Own bread, the men think I’m a queer, don’t mind
Their wives swapping recipes with me…

It’s strange, is it not? Forever I was a chef in hotels
And posh restaurant, not well paid and cooks where
Not seen, the person sweating smelling of booze and
Being unappreciated; alas, now they are superstars
Their love life is reported in magazines. Yet, when
My women go they leave a scent of mimosa behind.

from here to eternity

From Here to Eternity

It was a very long road – straight- and ending in a haze,
no place to stop for a drink only one shop selling coffins
and religious stuff. Those who lived in the beginning of
the road had never walked to its misty end, God lived
there it was said, but a keep fit fanatic, confident and
careless, walked the whole length of the road twice a day
got so bored and he hung himself. People who lived at
the beginning of the road and also those in the middle,
looked at each other and made a Gallic shrug.

The widow, a tall lady who played guitar sang folksongs
about saving the rain forest, dyed her hair olive and, bought
a white coffin and painted it green to make her husband’s
dead a celebration to life fell in love with the undertaker,
he too played a musical instrument, accordion; now they
make a good living playing sad music at funerals. As for
the haze, it turned out to come from the public bath, now
closed down, as everybody has their own bathroom, to be
seen near a bathhouse is a mark of disgraceful poverty.

empty jerry cans

Empty Jerry Cans.

There had been a war; there is always a war someplace,
both the opposing armies ran out of petrol, so they used
animals that could carry supply and weapon on their
backs, donkeys, mules and horses were preferred, they
are more pliant and used to slavery.

Also reindeers were tried, but with limited success,
could only be used in the north, in the Middle East
they keeled over by heat exhaustion and the Zebras
were impossible to tame they refused to be a casualty
of a war they had nothing to do with them.

Now that the war was over, surviving leaders pledged:
No More Wars, horses, mules and donkeys had finally
seen the light, from now on they were only selling their
services for the best hay available; a 35 hours working
week and a good hosing down and rub after work.

Since many of them had perished, there was a worldwide
understanding of their plight, they got what they wanted.
When the Zebras complained that the grass on Savannah
was cut and exported as food for the new elite, there was
little pity, however, if they promised to behave more like
horses, some fodder might be available.

sea tide

Sea Tide

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 and
watched an old western, with John Wayne and his mates.

october mood

October Mood.

Clouds are breaking up now and leisurely sailing
north, on the sky a gigantic proud rainbow that makes
the mistake of mirroring itself on a shiny cloud and
promptly losses its soul to the image, hazes into a blur
of pale colour and dissipates. You can see the thieving
rainbow is a fake it’s the wrong way around and when
I tells it so it hastily hides behind the mountain range
trying to look pretty for people on the other side of it.
A dead turtle on the road thrown out of a fast car by
someone fed up of having a pet that only ate lettuce
and lived wordlessly under the sink.

As enormous clouds drift northward, I wonder if fish
see icebergs as we see clouds. “Look, at that amazing,”
cloud!” A poetic cod says. “It’s only chunk of ice,”
the practical cod says, it’s a big fish, has a degree in
marine biology. The poet cod doesn’t answer, rapt it
doesn’t see the net and gets hopelessly stuck in verbs,
commas, full stops and archaic words only found in
the Oxford thesaurus. The big fish swims, on but looks
up and sees cobalt light, as coming from the inside of
an iceberg, it finds that “quite interesting” but refuses to
use words like lovely… and worst of all beautiful.

Senryu

Senryu

Poverty is a myth
Look at the poor they are fat
Live on sweet and crisp

ocean blue

Blue Ocean

When I awoke it was Sunday morning and the seashore
had disappeared, lie in the grass by a stream that has its
nascent where winter shawls cover the blue mountain.

A white owl, ogled me as tiny snakes slithered across my
belly, dived into the streams coolness, which hurt since it
was only two feet deep.

Bleeding from a head wound, but having got rid of
the serpents, I hung my clothes to dry on an oak's
inviting branch.

Sat on a boulder as morning sun warmed my nudeness,
when the maid who milks morning dew walked by,
she paused and asked: " Are you a satyr?'

“No dear, I'm a sailor rejected by the sea". She gave me
roses' dew to drink, intoxicated I embraced her ephemeral
body and was free of the ocean's pull.

the new poor

The New Poor

Many middleclass people are poor, I read,
when house and car are paid for there is no
money for food; they could sell the car and
move to a smaller house, but the indignity of
no longer being thought of as middleclass,
stops them from doing just that. Trapped in
a spiral of debt and their own insatiability,
they are stuck in semi poverty mitigated by
new the Volvo in the driveway

new beginning

A New Beginning

Her kisses tasted of iron railing a frosty morning,
tore skin off my lips, her eyes were frozen stars
set in a deadly sea of tranquillity, a beauty flawless
and free of guilt. Her body…unbending, unwilling,
an ice maiden in a winter forest, no warm May sun
could ever hope to thaw.

Her pale lips had spots of cardinal crystal residue
of my attempt of resurrection, my love for her I lay
at her feet struck a match in the vast night of silence.
Free, in the glade she stood my new smiling love,
surrounded by flowers of spring; hand in hand we
walked to where days begin.

the thrifty

The Thrifty


Moonlight in the park of passion, they sat reading each
others bank statement, in her lap a posy of flowers he
had taken from a day fresh grave and as owls in an old
tree hooted, serenading them; inhaling the melancholic
sent of stolen flowers she said:
“We can’t get married yet, my love.” “I know dear, we
have to wait till your parents’ die, since you are looking
after them, as I do mine, we just have to be patient and
wait, what they leave will be ours.”
He fumbled in his pocket and gave her a penny a child
had lost outside a tuck-shop, a token of his love for her,
although she had a handbag, so full of lost coins, that it
needed an extra shoulder strap and a reinforced bottom.
The moon kept on shining for the thrifty pair where they
sat, on a green bench of love, whispering slowly, exciting
numbers to one another: “million five hundred thousand
dollars and much, much more,” as orgasmic lust frugally
swelled in their loins

mystic island

A Voyage


The ship was loaded we were going to
an island in the Saragossa that cannot be
seen by radar as it is always surrounded by
a miasma of sadness, here daybreak is
only a five second glimmer in an endless
night and only expert navigators are able
to find this island…

Our cargo consisted of discarded dreams
the islanders had lived so long in peace
that they had lost the ability to think of
esoteric things, their word expanse was
of seaweed and monster cods; but they
needed this diversion if not they would
sink into apathy and die

When the ship blew its siren for the third
time and the gangway was lifted, I was
hiding behind a warehouse that was full
of dreams destined for another island,
I wouldn’t like to be a part of this, giving
people second hand dreams when the could
consisting of clichés and spent phrases.

I could have lived with this mild betrayal
if it hadn’t been for the rule that no crew
member were allowed to dream or read
or sing, but be, as often long time sailors
are, men who have lost their ability to
remember that once their were children
and not blinded by endless tediousness.

Worst of all, perhaps, it was said that ships
going there were crewed by the world
weary, men who are shadows of themselves
who drowned when crossing the vastest
expands, too far away from a priests soothing
words were love had lost its meaning and
the last thought was of a whore in Santiago.

war weary

The War Weary


When I think of war I think of Falluja, massive
firepower total obliteration till silence descends
and one can hear blood dripping from the cross.

No heroes here only scarred and scared soldiers
who will take this horror home and remember it;
and for whom the war will go on in nightmares.

Falluja, here a miasma of fear obscure the ruined
dwellings workers are rebuilding, but how do we
repair a heart that has seen too much blood shed?

on a day like this

On A Day Like This

Parked in a side-street, decided to walk into the town
centre to buy my newspaper; legs ached, so very tired,
and since it was July I wore shorts, my legs looked fine
calf-muscles still strong; had I been a woman I would
have said: “look at that man hasn’t he a pair of sex legs,
a masculine Marlene Dietrich.” Perhaps not, but as
I was thinking of her and Ernest Hemingway, they had
loved each other, but never got around to do anything
about it, I had walked out of the town wandering along
a lane, made of sea sand and crushed shells, till I came
to a crossing and at the left of it there was an enormous
carob tree and under it heavy low hanging branches
I found shade. Breeze filtered through the fleshy leaves
making it cool; I leaned on its solid trunk and felt at ease
with the world.

I was running up a very steep hill, light footed as an onyx,
the breeze…me, the act of running was a joy. At the top
I could see the glittering sea and to meet my love I raced
down hill faster than a stone could fall, and on the flatland
waved to farmers tilling their soil; and without pausing, at
the beach, I dived into the sea and began swimming till all
land disappeared.

I was at one with nature, around me circled happy dolphins,
but suddenly, flecks of dark shadows appeared on the surface
of the sea and it was cold despite the warm sun, I was utterly
alone, my arms were thin and belonging to someone very old;
as I throw my head back as not to drown my head hit the trunk
of the tree, I looked out the sun had just gone down, but was
still sending streaks of gold and orange across the sky. Back in
town I thought of the lovely story of Adam & Eve, a pity that
we’ll never know the name of the person, who wrote it;
at a grocer’s I bought an apple and went looking for my car

unlucky thief

Unlucky Thief

The man who stole so much copper that
the suspension on his van broke when
he tried to get away; instead of legging it
he was caught when calling a tow-truck
The judge made cheap jokes on the man’s
behalf, like thieves hasn’t got pride too.
Not only sent down he also lost, unfairly,
I thought; the automobile associations
membership card he had had for ten years.

a question

A Question

Does assimilation means
That the minority must
Become as the majority?

And if they refuse to be
As the majority, does that
Mean they are losers?

What the paper says.

What the Paper Says

There are no elephants on the shores of the Mosquito
coast, and that’s ok; only poor, red snapper catching,
people lives here. Lately, however, drugs meant for
the middle classes of Boston, drifts ashore, bales of
it, fallen off the back of a speed boat, it is sold back
to those who lost it, that only right and proper.

Money goes a long way when you’re poor, but only
as long as none of then inhale what’s in the bales.
If they do, phantom elephants, scared by buzzing of
angry, none existing bees, will stampede; and that’s
no good, red snappers will go uncaught and
the middle-classes of Boston will run amok as well.

Senryu

Senryu

A lottery ticket
The very old farmer bought
The dream never dies

the Twin towers

It is slowly raining in New York City today, big
drops lazy fall, roll along 42nd street pick up dust,
collide with other drops and become dirty water
that runs down a sewer hole with vertical bars.

Hudson River runs full too, much rain upland,
and New Jersey, where Tony lives, got a drenching
too, Mr. Soprano slouches in his pajamas feels
ancient at 47, and worries about the future

In the City, where the absence of the Twin Towers
is still seen, the Central Park need a good soaking;
a big rat put its snout through the vertical bars,
looks up at the mournful sky and sighs.

Get a Dog.

Get a Dog

There are not enough stars on the heavens to light up
the path you have chosen to walk, in the bleakness of
the night your name is but an echo, yet I feel if I call
your name out loud one time more, you might hear
me open your eyes and smile; this crocked little smile
of yours, kidding me you’re.

I’m driving home after the sermon, the others are
going to a restaurant, to eat, mourn and drink wine.
I didn’t know a house could be so empty it screams
in agony, I switch on TV and radio, bland voices
sooth. In a month time friends will say” why don’t
get a dog?” Thoughtless they are, but so it goes on.

Shangri La

Shangri La.

Tibet used to be a quaint place, full of monks and
poor people who didn’t often washed their faces.
Intrepid westerners liked the place, thought it was
a Paradise, even though no one stayed too long.
Then the Chinese came and, as occupiers often,
do destroyed works of art, the Lama, and his staff,
fled to India. Today modernity has arrived, there is
less poverty, roads have been built and it has been
said that there are dancehalls and painted ladies in
Lhasa. Life is better now chiefly for the poor, yet
people would, it’s been said, endure the hardship
of freedom and yak butter in their morning tea for
a taste of independence. The intrepid would be back
and write books about this authentic Shangri La.

november love

November Love.

He was around thirty, dressed in a grey suit, but he had
no arms, (accident) zip open, a man desperate and drunk,
came into my café wanted a beer with a straw, that’s
what I gave him. He needed a pee I had things to attend
to in the kitchen, a woman, his age, said she was a nurse,
helped him; back from the loo he looked respectable.
In her company he was more at ease and joked about his
plight, asked the time had to take a ferry home as he lived
on one of the islands. Ten to nine the nurse followed him
down to the docks, she didn’t return; but took the ferry
too, I think, and became his arms, lover and caring wife.
She had left a plastic bag behind it was full of crumbled
up bread and stale cakes meant for the ducks; I went to
the park next morning and fed them crumbs of love

epigram

Epigram.


Gold is a useless metal, shining bullions
In a bank vault, creates nothing but envy.
Human effluence is quite useful, enrich
The soil and fills the air with roses’ scent.

Senryu and Tanka

Senryu


Can haiku stop wars?
Yes, but only if written
On a projectile



Tanka

Those who wedge wars
Are not prone to read poetry
Those who read verses
Often die on the frontline
Or are shamed in prison


Senryu

To not wear uniform
When everyone else does
Takes great courage

The Reason

The Reason

The bells you hear, when busy voices briefly ceases,
are made of brass and polished, at dawn, by the spittle
of seven deeply religious monks in the far away Tibet;
where they use yak butter in their morning tea.

When first light strikes the bells there is and explosion
of the colours, blue and green, that lives inside the sun,
without these tones the seas would have been dull as
a rain puddle, outside Gare de Lyon, a fall afternoon.

Review of my latest collection "End of a Journey"

JAN OSKAR HANSEN:
UNABASHED REFLECTIONS ON THE HUMAN CONDITION.

Review of “End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay”, a new collection of poetry by Jan Oskar Hansen, Copyright 2007, 100 pages, softcover price: US$17.00. Published by Water Forest Press, New York, USA, www.waterforestpress.com, ISBN 10:0-9723493-5-9; ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-5-2.

This latest collection of poetry and short prose by Jan Oskar Hansen exemplifies immense personal and artistic maturity. I have elsewhere written about Hansen’s genius as regards the art of storytelling, and this work is no exception. Hansen seems to re-set the bar with each book he writes – much like good whiskey .. improving with age and experience.

Having previously reviewed two other poetry collections by Hansen (Letters from Portugal and La Strada), I am somewhat familiar with both his writing style and his artistic progression. I am pleased to see that Hansen has (in this latest collection of poetry) successfully managed to combine poetic economy and succinctness with prosaic boundlessness; at the same time retaining his innate sense of literary rebelliousness, social and political commentary and overall evenness of quality.

Jan Oskar Hansen has what is referred to in Norwegian (the land of his birth and youth) as “bakkekontakt” (a sense of reality). Hansen’s work often leaves an almost bittersweet chocolate aftertaste, with the effect that the reader is invariably left with a craving for more. Perhaps the most striking and enticing aspect of these short stories in poetic prose form is also that which makes them somewhat “uncomfortable”: Hansen ingeniously presents contemporary issues and personal experience in a way that is immediately digestible, both honest and humorous in its portrayal of humanity; and which cleverly pulls the reader so easily into the reasoning of the stories told that one cannot help but to question one’s own personal values upon reflection. His experiences and his viewpoints suddenly become those of the reader, and in order to satisfy the yearning to learn more about oneself one simply has to continue slavishly from poem to poem .. and perhaps even to take a second read-through upon reading the last words in the book.

The quality and genius of Hansen’s writing speaks well enough for itself, but I will refer to a few examples from his book which I particularly like:

“Mother does the washing up at my place, only she has arthritis in her hands breaks a lot of glasses and plates, has backache too standing for hours bent over the sink; and anyway, as mother says: “It’s time you get married, I can’t go on forever, and you are not young anymore.”
So that’s what I will do, when the moon is really full, ask the simple girl to marry me, and I’ll send mother to a home for the infirm.” (from “Harvest Moon”).


And


There is but one vast ocean
with an ever changing name,
so much sea, so little land.
It is rising, turquoise death
nibbling at tropical islands;
beaches are moving inland,
a new Noah’s Ark, a pair of
each, female/male and no gay
parade on her deck, drifting
on a clueless, windless ocean,
often called: “Nothing to see
but fucking water.”
(from “The Ocean”)


Hansen has also included several haiku in this collection. Two of the many fine examples follow:

As August heat wafts
Wayside weeds collect dust
For a rainy day

And

The grove’s olive trees
Look like a vanquished army
Slowly marching home


In conclusion, I would heartily recommend End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay to all who are looking for a reading experience that goes far beyond the boundaries of traditional poetry; reaching into the psychology and the humour of the human condition.

About the author:
Jan Oskar Hansen, a Norwegian expatriate, has published a wealth of poems, including individual works published in various anthologies, on the internet, and three collections which previously have been published in book form: Letters from Portugal (BeWrite Books, UK 2003), Lunch in Denmark (Lightningsource, UK 2005) and La Strada (Lapwing, Belfast 2006).

See also Jan Oskar's website: http://www.literati-magazine.com/magazine_features/winter05/poetry/jan-hansen.html


- Literary criticism (2007) by Adam Donaldson Powell (based upon “End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay”, published by Water Forest Press, New York, USA, www.waterforestpress.com, ISBN 10:0-9723493-5-9; ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-5-2.).

ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) is a literary critic and a multilingual author, writing in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian; and a professional visual artist. He has published five books (including collections of poetry, short stories and literary criticism) in the USA, Norway and India, as well as several short and longer works in international literary publications on several continents. He has previously authored theatrical works performed onstage, and he has (to-date) read his poetry at venues in New York City, Oslo (Norway), Buenos Aires and Kathmandu (Nepal).

Statehood

Statehood


A shiny fly came, sat on the coffee pot lid, it wasn’t
big, but behaved in the manner of a son of, say,
a minor Hungarian aristocrat. I swatted it with a dish
cloth it fell into the sink, not dead opened the tap and
down the plughole it went. I was eating a slice of loaf
with blueberry jam, when it came out of the plughole,
clambered out of the sink, sat on saucer and began
cleaning its wings while buzzing loudly.

I was eating a slice of loaf with strawberry jam, as
a way of variation, when a small, grey faced fly came
flying in it settled on my cigarette lighter, I knew this
one came from a tower block estate hidden behind
a ring-road, a place with burnt out cars and grim silence;
where the “racaille” live, as the French president said.
I killed it twice to be sure to be sure it didn’t survive
long enough to try lit my lighter.

3 haiku

Haiku.


The day is at ease
After a fortnight of rain,
Sun warms my face

Cool is the sun
One needn’t be a mad dog
To be out at noon

Rain, sun and billows
The tenth month is befuddled
Thinks it is April

dogs in wars

Dogs In Wars

The big, white dog cowered in the shadows unseen
by soldiers marching by, there had been fighting and
many corpses lay rotting in streets, hungry dog had
been eating, first reluctantly, then with abandonment,
forgotten was ancient taboo about eating human flesh...

Soldiers, who could kill their enemies brutally and
without mercy, had an irrational fear against dogs that
ate humans. The white dog knew this, any dog seen
eating man could never again be mans best friend

When the war was over it would try to be adopted by
a nice family with small children it could look after;
but for now the dog was hungry it had to finish eating
an arm that appeared to have belonged to a soldier who
had been keen on weightlifting before joining the army
and be blown to bits by a wayside bomb.

the dryness

The Dryness

They used to keep their distance, but now that the moot
of wine has dried there is no defense against the blighters
that disturbs my night by opening doors and slamming
them shut. Whispers coming from nowhere, shadows
where they shouldn’t be hastily appear, frost roses on
bedroom window, shivered under two duvets made of
the tail feather’s hapless ducks, alas a quacking morning
chorus woke me up the ducks came demanded their
feathers back. A horse hair blanket keeps me warm if not
asleep, its too rough for my indoor skin. Imps and former
dark deeds keep their distance you will never find an evil
spirit in a stable where there is a horse, manger and hay.

Tanka (what not to do)

Tanka. (what not to do)

A tiny, fretful mouse,
in the cellar found spilt wine,
which it swiftly drank,
and rashly walked upstairs,
to seduce the feline cat

Marlilyn Monroe remembered

Marilyn Monroe Remembered.

Through Erno Laszlo’s windows, on the Fifth Avenue
New York, I saw her; bold I was in those days walked
straight in asked her to marry me. She smiled thought,
I was too young and, anyway, she was getting married
to a writer, forgotten his name now, but he was quite
famous back then. A flunky came over, asked Marilyn
if I was bothering her, not at all, she said, gave me kiss
that covered the whole of my face. Blindly fell out of
out of the shop, people smiled. Ambled past Laszlo’s,
the other day, they had a picture of her looking out, now
that I’m so much older than her, she looked unbearable
young and incredible beautiful