haiku

Haiku

First day of spring
Frozen wind wants to enter
And sit by the fire.


Haiku

Pallid sun on blue
Casts insignificant light
Needs an orange tan

housewife 1810

Housewife. Ca. 1810. Or today?

Mend my socks, by the sunny wall,
I love to see when your thimble, of
silver, shines as brilliant as the sun.

Sew buttons on my trousers´ fly, in
the midnight cove, I love to see when
your thimble outshines the new moon

But leave the thimble at home when
we go to the ball; people might get
the wrong idea, think you’re my maid.

tanka and haiku

Tanka

Last Friday afternoon
Time slowed to a trickle,
Icy wind and rain
Tried to stop it entirely
But got very short of breath





Disharmony


Nearly drowned once
In azure coloured tint
And soggy wet notes

Local News.

It was falsely reported that a yellow
submarine had surfaced in the village’s
pond, and its three crewmembers sat on
deck, forever blowing bubbles.

Nor was it a fluffy duckling, too young
to contemplate suicide, and too buoyant
to sink; no, it was a xanthous butterfly
washing pollen of its feet.

Algarve

Loulé. Algarve.


A long avenue; flanked by purple
flowering trees, sunlight and statues
of dead heroes

Many café’s, up and down, but
only one has wood tables and chairs,
the rest use plastic furniture.

The local elite go there, drink strong
coffee, in the forenoon, and behave
with commendable demureness

mission accomplished

“Mission Accomplished”

the president said, striding
on the deck of a floating war
machine.
How I raged that day,
then came to my senses and
despaired.
We knew, us who have lived a little,
that the war was just beginning;
now four years later and
many needless deaths
I feel no need to open a window
and shout: “I told you so!”

mission accomplished

“Mission Accomplished”

the president said, striding
on the deck of a floating war
machine.
How I raged that day,
then came to my senses and
despaired.
We knew, us who have lived a little,
that the war was just beginning;
now four years later and
many needless deaths
I feel no need to open a window
and shout: “I told you so!”

loss of language

Loss of Language


I looked up and many years had gone
a span of time unbridgeable; a new
world and to it I was a perfect stranger.
The verbs I had tried to make sense
and harmony of, were obsolete; a new
language based on text messages has
made me a reading analphabet, and
special jargons, based on the internet,
has made me into a fossil laughed at
by technocrats and small children.
My work pine in a drawer marked
poetry, written on sepia paper, pale
words forever unread, still, they will
make a beautiful bonfire come May.

Haiku

Dawn’s melancholy
Dissolves in the brilliance
Of sun’s white teeth



Hushed afternoon
Cold wind has blown us indoors
Sorrow has returned


Oak leaves drown
In my garden’s ornate pool
Dignified sorrow

boyhood friend

Boyhood Friend

He used to be my friend, fifty years lapsed;
when seeing him again I saw the boy in
an aged face. Back then he was awkward child
now he was snug in his elderliness, race over,
he had made it no more silly dreams, mild eyes,
quiet smile, fond of giving advice to the young,
and… me. He spoke of years I had forgotten,
of a silvery childhood, removed from mundane
reality or perhaps it was me who remembered
wrongly, or maybe I hadn’t yet picked out my
nuggets of gold illusions from the cold soil of
fear that was the infancy we had in common.
As the world despairs over these endless wars,
my friend is happily cocooned in holy senility.

tanka

Tanka

Torrential rain falls
From majestic black clouds
A massive army
Marching across the heaves
Armed with golden sabers

haiku

Haiku

Deliciously
With her I pass silky nights
Till aurora smiles



In obscure light
Flowers open their petals
Collect fecundity.

Haiku


This we didn’t know of:
The power a white pearl has
To transform a cornea


Blank is you face…when
Thinking of its lost beauty.
Submerged by sadness

the wine

The Wine (Andalusia inspired)

If you are offered this fruity,
wine from Spain, don’t dally;
for it makes you eyes shine
and you’ll see female beauty
in the most mundane of faces.
While lesser wine, from land
of colder climes, only makes
your feet exceedingly heavy.

the great escape

The Great Escape

When the police, at the market, arrested a pair
of robbers, a mad cow came scampering, chaos
the robbers legged it. One was quickly caught,
the other ran into a zoo; where the police shot
an elephant and wounded a giraffe, (being big
when bullets fly is a draw back). The bad guy,
was trapped when he fled into an art gallery.
He collided with a landscape painting, destined
for the local jail’s reading room, a sandy road
coast line and an elm forest it had. The painting
parted, as the red sea; inside he hastily ran to
the nearby woods, whence he couldn’t escape;
and had plenty of time to ponder what God was
thinking of when he created the tiny house ant.

tanka

Tanka

The poem I read
Was as a face coming out of mist,
Clear for a second
Then dreamily hidden again
Leaving me wondering why?

new system

Changing Ways

The white gloved hand of progress
is killing small bakery in the land
where I live; Dona Francesca’s shop
has closed and no more fresh bread
and cakes on a try for all to see and
inhale, she couldn’t meet the demand
of shiny machinery and pure hygiene.
Her bakery has sot black walls and
stone floor. A big van comes to our
village now, sells long lasting sliced
bread, safely wrapped in plastic, cakes
ditto, full of additive and artificial
aroma too. No surprises here, such as
a cockroach trying to look like a prune.

tanka

Tanka

Mothers straw-hat
On a hook in the hallway
Twenty years gone now
Covered in spider’s web
Yet I can see her kind smile

water haiku

Haiku (Water Related.)



On the village’s pond
Silvery on sunless days
Float golden leaves


The mountain lake
When kissed by the breeze
Trembled thrilled.


Only the black swans
In the mystic forest tarn.
Knows where my car is.

Tropical lagoon
Clear as Portuguese vino verde
Is soberly calm.


Sleepy Finnish mere
Is covered by blue ice
Wakes up in April.

the inlet

The Inlet.

Ships in the bay tug at anchor
chains, bows point to the sea,
time now to leave, a busy ship
is meant for the big ocean and
adventures; tranquil bays are
for mast-less sail boats, dingy
and blue rowing boats, as terns
cry, wait for the cook to throw
left over food into green water.

mars 2007

Mars 2007

By the sunny wall they sit,
the six black clad widows,
used to be eight, but winter
is damp and often cold in
the upper Algarve.

Knitting pins and darning
needles, glint in the light,
they pass the time talking
of the two that didn’t make
it…and patiently wait

a picture 1950

A Picture 1950

In sepia light a thin man,
dressed in a generous gray suit,
stands reading titles outside
a bookshop, in a London street.

A woman, in a long black dress,
white blues and flat sensible
shoes, walks up an taps him on
his shoulder.

They briefly kiss walk off
I wondered if they were long
time married or wise English
lovers on their lunch break.

haiku

Haiku

Does spring offensive
Mean procreation and birdsong
Or war?


Morning zephyr
Flapping kitchen curtains
Aroma of coffee


Field ploughing tractors
Red soil and shrieking gulls
Horse empty landscape.


A grizzled donkey
Under a big carob tree
Makes it pretty.

So many flowers
Flamboyant aroma of death
Too late now for love


The good farmer
Has planted an almond tree
On my dog’s grave.


In a dead rabbit’s eyes
I saw the vast empty sky
Unmoved and godless

charity

Charity.

When the old lady who sat alone at
a table near mine had finished eating,
the waiter cleared the table and brought
her, a cup of coffee. From an enormous
bag she took up some knitting and, yes,
knitted. She looked up, smiled, she had
lovely eyes, clear as a doll’s, and said,
to no one specific that she was making
wooly socks for the children of Angola
which, was very nice of her even if a bit
eccentric, we the other guests smiled too
I would have thought the socks more apt
for poor Eskimos in, say, Greenland; and
wondered if the others thought as I.

a poet's morning

A Poet’s Morning

I like to sleep late, almost till eight, my skeptical
duvet doesn’t like to blow its cover, so I pass
my time making up anagrams of famous names,
only I can’t spell and end up with words that make
no sense; I have tried for years to be a novelist but
after a page of reluctant words, I end up going back
to bed. It is said gorillas are bright because they are
able to fold a few leaves together and make a bed,
big deal, the sparrows on my roof make intricate
nests of feather, tiny twigs and digested worms,
and they get babies that try to push each other out;
nature is murder, mayhem and desperate survival.
So perhaps we should be more understanding; when
a flaming bush sets fire to a forest.

the great democracy

The Great Democracy


It was a moment when the cacophony of voices,
at the railway restaurant, became one, no longer
dusty gibberish mixed with cigarette smoke, but
a real, clear human accent making an utterance;
alas, the voice spoke of mortgages, the price of
heating homes, electricity and food; the only true
issue in our civilized world. So should one be
shocked, isn’t that what we have worked towards
too? A life that is mundane that doesn’t tax you
with any political philosophy, any ism of this and
that, only leaves you to worry about the ordinary
things like the ice cream parlour in Parkgate that
sells 21 flavours of ice cream, now isn’t that nice
to know and to giggle about.

palavers

Palavers


If, I possessed the last word on earth,
and if the written language was obliterated
by a giant computer; and if I was able to
make anagrams of that word that would
amuse the multitude, if not academics,
who tend to be word blind anyway, would
they compare me to the greatest living
author in the world, a man called Amiss,
famous son of another Amiss? Or would
they say: do not for a moment think you’re
better than us, we know who you are, saw
you falling out of a bar a Thursday only
fortnight ago and non of the anagrams you
spoke getting up were the least funny

senryu

Senryu

Murmur from the East
We ignored to our peril
Now it’s a scream


The thunder afar
Is not inclement weather
But exploding mines


Body parts drizzle
When eager children pick up
Toys dropped from planes



Man born to evil
Isn’t it a miracle then?
That there is goodness

the good life

The Good Life


After the sandy beach, the fenland with birds,
foxes, rabbits, woods and ponds, un-spoilt by
developers; no more, real estate, condos, have
turned over the land like rancid butter, rolling
green field, juicy grass, but not a cow in sight,
here golf balls fall and they really are inedible.
Come buy an apartment good investment for
you and the family, you can’t lose, why have
one home when you can have four.
Thousands of empty homes only used a few
days a year watched over buy security guards;
poverty is unseen here it has been eradicated,
there is no need for you to seek places where
people live in shacks and under dirty plastic.

The Lonesome

Sunday evening only a few cafes are open catering
to the lonely; the old lady, sat at a table near mine,
ordered the dish of the day and red wine, quarter
past nine, she always comes at that time it coincides
with the arrival of a black man who wears ridicules
earrings, a man who is showing a defiant, gay face
to the world, yet vulnerable, you know, if he could,
he would take up your burden. There are no happy
endings to stories told we end up alone and nothing
matters much. Your questions will not be answered,
she knows that and when the café is empty pays him
a beer and drink another glass of wine.

A Portuguese Graveyard...

The ship, riding swells, is anchored in the bay,
pilot’s late, yet time in shipping is essential; or
perhaps, I’m mistaken; it’s all a game, seascape
as seen from a cemetery. Visiting her mother’s
vault; a hole in a wall, glass-door, a grim coffin,
a sepia photo of the deceased, in a rust striped
frame; dry bones and peaceful silence
She opened the chamber’s door, began dusting,
the photo and the coffin while humming softly
as to a child. So much light here and colourful
plastic flowers, it would be nice to sleep here,
if not today, to have a dutiful daughter coming
every spring came, tickling my old bones, while
telling me about ships anchored in the bay

the legacy

The Legacy.

“I can’t live here in this flat; the hall is an ice-box
generations of ill will, trying to get into the kitchen
through the keyhole, these walls layers of cooking
vapour, cabbage and cat-piss hide family abuse and
tears can’t you hear the echo of screams, it’s Eve
the window in the living room is broken, blood in
vomit on the floor, someone in the bedroom is in
agony, I can’t stay here.” This is your heritage, you
have nowhere else to go.” ”Yes I have, got a house
in Spain, it’s in a vale by a river, my dog is waiting
it has waited long.” “You go to Spain every day but
always return” ” That’s because I have been going
on the wrong bus, tomorrow I’ll get it right, you can
keep my birthright, I’m not coming back.”

Street hero

Street Hero

My brother was famous in our town, the biggest Saturday
brawler of them all:” Why don’t you write poetry about him,”
his admirers said, yes, why not! Walked tall through town,
no one dared looking at him in a funny way, it was all about
respect, that strange word, not to be loved, but to be feared.
He didn’t have to pay for his drinks, even the police said:
“How do you do.” But of course he didn’t work didn’t like
being told what to do, spent days at the gym, “my body is
a weapon”, he once said... Didn’t help him much, though,
shot in the head coming out of a bar, a puddle of blood on
a dirty pavement. His mates were proud of the way he died,
maudlin outpouring of grief, mountains of flowers; now
a talked about legend; a street hero’s dead, welcome a new
one. But the only one who really loved him was his mother.

Jonas, the Cook.

Met a man in a bar in Kingston, he told me of Jonas
the merchant navy cook’s, demise. Late at night leaning
on the railing, looking at the stars Jonas’ ship lurched
and he fell into the sea. A good swimmer he floated on
his back and continued to watch the stars, thought they
were really close, to dawn and found he was so close to
a tiny island that he could wade ashore. Looked up and
saw a vapour trail and was hit on the head by a block of
ice released from the plane. The man in the bar, who had
come to the island to live alone, buried Jonas, a cross,
of driftwood on top, which reminded the loner, life was
to be lived elsewhere, so he sailed back to the mainland;
only knew it was Jonas when reading about the missing
cook; never told anyone though, thought it best that way.

Redondo 2004

Redondo 2004.

The little black man is buying wine, so
am I, gives me a conspiratorial smile.
Our hands a fluttering bird wings, waits
to take flight at night, dreams and music
only we can hear no need for a radio.
This nocturnal practice, we speak to no
one of, then it’s morning as we wait for
twilight time and a new solitary journey
through our many yesterdays begins.

Senryu

Senryu

Flaccid scrotum
Clanks hollow this spring
Flawed by impotence

obstacles

Obstacles.

I have moved the great berg in front of my
House, it took years, but I had to do this to
See; now there is a big black hole that waits
To be filled by candour, if you stumble and
Fall into it, look up and see an honest coin,
Don’t fault me, blame obstinate poetry that
Refuses to play games of fame with mirrors
And holy smoke.

In your face...mate

In Your Face…mate.


Moonlight becomes me,
guided by it pianissimo
I find my way home from
the den of illusions,
and hurt laughter.
In a rain puddle, where
the road is uneven,
see my aged face, looking
young as a Greek god’s,
on my head I wear
a shiny helmet;
till a car comes along and
splashes the picture of
self delusion into drops of mud

another dawn

Another Dawn

Restless night, Agent Orange, plums of fire
and burning bushes, silent dawn a flock of
tired birds flew past looking for trees, to sit
and rest a little before flying up north.

The field of almond trees, planted long ago,
without the precision of economy, was now
a battlefield of death, men with chainsaws
walked around looking for signs of life.

A scream of agony flew upwards from
pained soul, exploded into a kaleidoscopic
cacophony, fading against a sky clouded
by white sorrow and spent wrath.

Why cannot things stay the same? A face in
a crowd, everything I loved going, going
gone, the ever changing world, now sky blue
warming sun; afar, a dog barks.

They are planting orange trees in my field
insipid fruit machines, citrus twice a year;
for cash crops my trees had been slain; on
combat zone there is no mercy.

racew relation 1950

Race Relation (1950)


All we knew was what our teacher told
black people where big but very nice and
lived in bamboo huts, so when we saw
one coming off a ship we took him home
to my aunt, mother had said she was a tart,
the black man also had a bottle of rum and
cigarettes which was in great demand in
those days. She threw us kids out, locked
the door and drew the curtains (she lived
in a basement flat) disappointed we went
back to the docks to find another one to
show around.

the warrior child

The Warrior Child

Little Johanna and I sat under a bridge I was going
to marry her when grown up, she fretted, said no,
so I bit her chubby, summer brown arm, she cried
ran home, her mother too said I was a bad boy.
Fed up with women and their tears, I ran off and
joined the German army, they had a barracks nearby
and a cannon pointing upwards in case a bomber
should come our way; I sat on it and pretend
shooting down enemy planes, had a rifle too made
of wood, the real thing was too heavy, loved being
a soldier till I ate some sweet smelling snuff, threw
up and was carried home, but my dreams where often
plagued by white, still faces in the snow, the dark
realities of war no child should have to witness.

unnconected

Unconnected

The divorced men, in my café drink,
coffee and sweet wine, read newspapers,
wear suits that need dry cleaning, and
talk politic till the last bus has gone and
they have to take a cab home.

There they are fatally alone in unaired
beds, piles of washing in the bathroom,
and a bottle of whisky in the closet;
a brave shrug they muster, but Sundays
are days of utter dread.

tanka

Tanka.

If, just once more,
I saw a Caribbean dusk
I would think of you
And not of bright light and bars
Or of sex and cicadas’ song.


Tanka

If, just once more,
I saw a south Pacific dawn
I would think of you
And not the sound of kimonos
Sliding off elfin shoulders.

haiku

Haiku

Ripples on shore lines
Terns, sand and a blue sky
My sea bids farewell.



In the deep hush,
When night softly rains
Your name is a song.

the seed

The Seed

In a crack in the pavement, near the wall,
of low slung building that has an office
that helps immigrant find shelter and work,
a rare flower bloomed.

A seed had been stuck to the trousers’ leg
of a welder from Minsk and when he stamped
dust off his shoes it fell off and rolled into
this crack.

The welder, who now works at a building
site, and has milk and honey for his wife
and children, will never know he was carrier
of a delicate beauty.

snowdrops

Snowdrops

Looked up and it was spring and I hadn’t noticed,
busy looking for snow flakes, since someone said
it hadn’t snowed here for fifty years; I climbed up
mountains, and down deep ravines, stayed up late
came across flakes, on the lane, but they turned
out to be petals off my unappreciated almond tree.
The earth usually the colour of dried blood, from
slain soldiers of battle fields long forgotten, is now
covered in intense yellow flowers; in the grass cats
hunt mice; birds, home from their African sojourn,
have nothing to tell me, now busy collecting straw
and tiny twigs for their nests under the roof tiles.
Nature hums of useful, if heedless love; in my quest
for momentary recognition I had nearly missed it all

Tanka (at the airport)

Tanka (At the airport)

Anything to declare?
Nothing to be arrested for
A friendly poem
A cigarette behind my ear
And fear of authorities

the old couple

Old Couple

Cross-legged
in bed
bulky bodies,
no sweet scent
upon eager lips;
nights hold
no passion,
only the easy
warmth of
a couple who
knows each
other too well

the worshipper

The Worshipper

She dresses up for
Sunday mass,
elegant dress,
subdued colours,
black & white,
hat to match.
Her fingernails are
red as Christ’s blood
on the cross;
as she pray her face
is at ease, a half smile
ripples across her
burgundy lips.
A well preserved
schooner rides
the sea swells
well, secure in her
faith knows
that over the horizon
she will find
a tranquil bay

the taxi driver

The Taxi Driver.

When my half-brother, the sage, was a child
he was different from us, didn’t care to play
silly games but sat cross-legged on the floor
saying things that impressed the grown ups,
so mother let him sit there, he didn’t have to
do a thing, like going into the dark cellar to
get a box of coal, rats down there it wasn’t
fair that I should have to do it, just because
he was a sage. My half brother grew up a fat
child when that was, not like now, unusual,
tall too he took up of space on pavements in
our little town; in the end he too had to find
work, a taxi driver now, he has many words
of wisdom to tell his captive fares

short time

Short Time


Between me and a homeless man,
is a room with a bed, easy to clean
nylon sheets, sink, mirror, window,
a 40 watt bulb, a suitcase on top of
a wardrobe, an empty bottle of gin
and unpaid rent.

love and opera

Love And Opera.

Amanda was a competent opera singer,
I was her pianist and impresario; up and
down the land we traveled bringing, to
many a small town, musical evenings
arranged by the doctor, the lawyer, and
the man, who sells the finest chinaware.

A noble life, often mentioned in local
papers, we enjoyed giving high culture
to the people; but good times came to
an end when Amanda fell in love with
a doctor in a town, near a lake, my job
was done and back to the city I went.

For years, in summer nights, the lake
town was full of songs, that some folks
left, at that time, was due the closure of
the factory and nothing to do with her
voice; but swiftly the high notes ceased,
when the fickle doctor fell out of love.

She took the train to the city, but there
was no longer call for her music, lost
grounds do to heartache and gin, lives in
a basement room sings risqué songs in
bars -near the docks- saw her there, but
it was too late in the evening for halloos.

rising tide

Rising Tide.

Shores have gone, and tough soldiers on
the reef Everest, shot, to kill, people on
approaching ships; the ocean is master;
marine life thrives. The wind has ceased,
the sky is mild and thousand of ships that
hoped to find a shore, have disappeared.
The soldiers, who killed with skill, only
a few are left, weakened by the immense
silence they slide off the reef, one by one,
deep down in a water dale where yeti and
yaks used to live. As the sea lazily slaps
Mount Everest’s peek, sunsets come and
go unseen; there is no one around who will
wonder if the wind will ever blow again

Senryu

Senryu


Blind man
Walks into a piano
A tuner?


Senryu

A lone snowflake
Fell into Bay of Biscay,
Flooded plain of Spain

the writer

The Writer.

I was writing a novel, it took long, when
looking up, a window shutter slammed,
as the breaths of fall frostily entered.

Alone, they had gone; family and friends
tired of waiting for me to have time for
them. The October wind tells me I’m old.

Three hundred blank pages going sepia,
distant memories, love and laughter, too
late now; deep shadows obscure the past.

relationship

Relationships.

Beside a field a farmer had cleared and planted potatoes
in a row, there was a pyramid of useless stones; under
it though, lived an easygoing snake and a family of rabbits.
Rabbits breed a lot get many bunnies, but they can’t count,
the snake took one or two when no one looked, equilibrium,
the place never got crowded. A good life for all concerned,
only the snake got lonely, listening to all, that goings on in
the warren, invited lady snake into the cave to share its
fortune. Alas, she had no sense, didn’t think of tomorrow,
greedy swallowed the mother rabbit first, then the cute little
bunnies, (the father rabbit escaped to start a new family
somewhere else) to there wasn’t any left; it curled up and
when awake, after sleeping for two weeks, it was so hungry
it had to slither outside in mud, rain; cigarette butts and
rotting leaves, in the hope of finding a field mouse or, even
worse, worms and dung beetles.

charing cross road in august light

Charing Cross Road, in August Light

Sunlight that slipped between two tall edifices
onto a city grimed brick building, looked sepia,
like a photo, in a local newspaper, say, 1950.
The building housed a bookshop that had dusty
windows, yet a man in a grey suit, that hung
loosely about his slim frame, not too big- the suit-
it only seemed to have been made of too much
cloths, stood reading; and that was unusual as it
was an old bookshop selling well used hardbacks.
But he was only passing the time, a woman in
a long black dress, matching hat and flat sensible
shoes, came up to him; they briefly kissed, then
walked off together, left me wondering if they
were long time married or prudent English lovers.

consumerism

Consumerism

A pair of trousers and a yellow silk scarf,
I had the sales lady’s attention, a full frontal
smile she gave and wished me a nice day.
This shopping street, we are all middleclass
the matted hair people, who begged here, and
made us feel ill at ease, have been exiled,
live behind the gasworks, where nice people
descends, every noel, to hand out blankets,
yesterdays cakes and plastic sheets for when it
rains. We are consumers, all of us, even India,
now so prosperous, has chased beggars out of
New Delhi, shiny office blocks and rags do not
mix. Tomorrow I’ll buy a pair of brown shoes
so I can fell worthy and respected again.

the vision thing

Vision Thing?

Twenty dollars for a blue suit made
by atheists, who hunger for a god that
can do magic. “Religion is the root of
all society’s ill,” the famous professor
growls, and makes fun of a lady who
wears a cross and isn’t even beautiful.
So what’s left? Consumerism, believe
in the present and sod the future, for in
time of plenty who needs a god?

the shy lover

The Shy Lover

She sits by the bar, drinks coffee,
not young, got sexy green eyes
and a lusty smile, like she can read
my mind. Not that I’m going to talk
to her, expose the mystic chemistry
between us by too much reality, but
I do walk a bit taller having seen her
and think…perhaps next time

the month of mars

The Month of Mars

This spring’s more intense than the one before
it’s like it’s in a hasty to green the valley and
that are still winter cold to the touch; and…
Manuel’s donkey is with foal, twins, it’s said.
Does nature sense the beginning of a hundred
years war? The overture has started, believers
in an almighty god and atheists are squaring up
to slaughter one another, lay waste the land to
prove a point; and future springs that bring no
joy of life, but a place where diamonds blinks
in streams of useless tears

losers and winners

Losers and Winners

Polly’s pregnant again with her
third child, so that’s where our
tax money goes; sterilization,
I say. No wonder she’s like that,
her father, the last proletarian,
on the dole dreams of workers
brotherhood, ‘e hasn’t noticed
that the working class lost in
1997. We are all middle class
now except for migrant workers,
low paid women, and the likes
of Polly.

the recorder

The Recorder

A sparrow
Fell from
The sky,
Wings
Outstretched,
Crucified
On asphalt.
Feathers upon
Feathers
Fly the wind
Forever.
Not forgotten;
An old man,
On his bike,
Was there to
Record its
Demise

the collector

The Collector

In the basement in the house of dreams there is
a room behind a padlocked oak door, it’s where
I keep treasures collected over years, I waited
to share them with the right one who came my
way, waited till the day she came; only now
I had lost the key and couldn’t get in to give
her, my love I had hidden from view too long.
Dissolution, in her eyes as she faded in a mist
of misery. If I live to be so very old that people
will come, admire my longevity I will think
how odd it is to be famous for an irrelevant fluke;
the lock will have rusted and fallen to the floor,
and as the door glides open and sun light enters,
I shall see dust glitter as gold for me alone.

tourism

Senryu

Decisive tourist
Chancellor Adolph Hitler
Visits Paris


The final tourist
President George Bush
Visits Baghdad

mothers

A Mother.


Buddhists should be grateful for Buddha’s
Mother, hadn’t it been for her he would have
Had to get up from the floor go out and find
A job…This gave him time to think, be wise
Say the right tings, not alienating people, and
Get a following, who, when his mother died,
Fed him honeyed cakes and butter milk

a february day

A February Day

Last year my almond tree was dressed in
a white frock for spring, this year it’s
night-club pink, a tree about town, full
fun ( days of innocence gone.) Last year
the other tree, much older, fell victim to
a chain-saw, all because the farmer’s wife
was cold. Now that rain has stopped my
tree exudes perfumed air, sways slowly as
listening to a trendy tune, it looks lovely
against the pale sky and setting sun

mine layers

Mine Layers.

Tiny mines, look like toys,
dropped near homes in Lebanon
Puffs of smoke, loss of a boy’s
limbs, eyes…or a broken mind.
Maimed for life he won’t join
the ranks of Hezbollah fighters
and become an evil terrorist.

the tears

The Tears.

It rained when she drove off, she was crying
but wouldn’t tell me why; house cold and
the day darkened, evening came early not as
twilight, just murky. Bad light couldn’t escape
by reading a Mike Spillane novel, just sat there
wondered why she had cried, a long drive in
the rain, did she sense foreboding I was too
numb to feel? The flowers on table cloth are
black roses now and the outdoor lamp swings
in the wind

diamonds are forever

Diamonds are forever.

Severed hands, from Sierra Leon
and still dripping blood, hung from
the elegant lady’s ears; passing
a shop-window, she caught a glance
of herself and adoringly smiled.

Retired Men

Retired Men

Walked quickly across the town’s square
it thronged with old men talking football;
in parks their fathers sit solving the Iraqi
war; “Drop more bombs show them who’s
the boss” I’m leaving this town…today,
the pretty girls have left and no mimosa
lingers, the elderly don’t smoke anymore
and they are going to live forever.

Transpiration

Transpiration

I can’t don’t lay claim on much,
but the aroma of sweat from my
underarms is mine. I sniff the air,
yeah, it’s me alright, alone in my
room I can enjoy my tiny victory.
I’m a victim of peoples’ mania
with personal hygiene, often baths
and hide my private olfactory in
suave chemicals

the sigh

The Sigh.

Spongy and wobbly
is the track up to
where the river commence,
spring has left,
water is vapid and slow running.
He used to visit here often,
rest in the fertile undergrowth;
tired he has taken to dream
of jubilant mountain wells
whence rivers flow free and
the track up is firm and
less squishy

the sacret tree

The Sacred Tree.
In the olive grove
It is the old gnarled tree
That catches my eye.

Serious bears fruit
Produces healthy oil for you
Prune it tenderly.

the philosophy of loss

The Philosophy of Loss.


A thief came to our home, said he was
a shop-fitter, stole mother’s heart and
the savings she had in a jar; peed into
the kitchen-sink and left by the backdoor

She cried, not too long and unseemly,
a charming man had entered her dreary
poverty struck life; the money was
only worth two packets of cigarettes

tanka

Tanka

God shed diamond tears
When chasing Adam & Eve
Out of Paradise.
His immense sorrow
Glitters on manicured fingers
As the dispossessed cry

the peace

The Peace.

The upper village is morning cold, chimney smoke
rise in still air; dogs, that sleeps in sheds, sit now by
the east wall huddled together facing the sun, see
me and there are greetings, a slow wagging of tails.
The air is so incredible clear I can see the houses on
the slopes of the hazy mountain where dogs sit and
face the same sun; I know I’m witnessing a flick of
eternity when other people and their dogs will walk
across the landscape and have the same dreams and
hopes as we had. Pedro is outside smoking, his wife
won’t let him smoke inside, turns the curtain yellow,
she says, the tobacco aroma drifts my way, wonderful.
A peaceful pocket on earth, my valley is; but I do fear
an easterly wind might bring the smell of cordite.

unsolved theft

Unsolved Theft

A big black bike, with frugal rubber tires
and an old fashion handlebar, is leaning
against the whitewashed wall this morning.

Someone had nicked it when going home
from the bar last night; so the thief lives in
one of the stone cottages around here.

The bike, that looks catholic, isn’t telling
made of hollow tubes, chains and rubber
it doesn’t really care who rides it.

Homes that look pretty as seen, hazily-and
at a distance- behind flowering almond trees
in the spring sun, have shuttered windows.

The last One

The Last One


You just know it’s mad, the grey
Bull elephant,

Walks in an endless circle inside
A hanger,

That used to store double winged
Flying machines,

It is the loneliness, you see; doesn’t
Matter how much I talk

I’m not an elephant and can’t play
Any musical instruments.

as it is

as it is.

The now floats,
as a river,
down to
the lake, past;

where we
access
what happened
there:

upstream
the future is
hidden
in a mist

Food for Thought

Food for Thoughts.

Five Spanish tomatoes on a chopping board,
four were used in a salad, the fifth was put
on a saucer and placed in the fridge, behind
a red skinned, well mannered, Edam cheese,
and a cheeky Danish blue.

When found, a month later, it was wrinkled,
shrunken and had grown a grey flecked beard;
flung into the bin with potato peel and curled
up lettuce leaves; where it bitterly murmured:
longevity! What’s the point?

Haiku (late summer)

Haiku (Late Summer)


Indian summer,
Is an actor who won’t share
Limelight with autumn.


Reluctant to leave
Summer clings to soil and trees
Blowing empty heat.


Clouds on a blue sky
Soon cooling rain ill fall
Hose summer away.

Senryu

Senryu

In perfection
Lies the first seed
Of destruction

Jan Oskar hansen on Wikipedia

Your continued donations keep Wikipedia running!
JAN OSKAR HANSEN
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to: navigation, search
Poet, story teller and seafarer,born in Stavanger, Norway
Jan Oskar Hansen joined the merchant navy at 15 and spent most of his life at sea until settling in the early 90's in Portugal. His poetry has been widely published in hard copy and online worldwide.
Contents[hide]
1 PUBLISHED COLLECTIONS:
2 MAGAZINES:
3 ANTHOLOGIES:
4 ONLINE:
5 REVIEWS (excerpts):
//

[edit] PUBLISHED COLLECTIONS:
Include Letters from Portugal (BeWrite Books, UK 2003), Lunch in Denmark (Lightningsource, UK 2005) and La Strada (Lapwing, Belfast 2006). Both Letters from Portugal and Lunch in Denmark are available at amazon.com.

[edit] MAGAZINES:
His poems have been published in over 20 literary magazines worldwide, includingHudson Review, USASkyline, USASkald, WalesLa rue Bella, EnglandThe Bards, EnglandWar is a dangerous place, EnglandARS Poetica India, IndiaMetvere Muse, IndiaPoets International, IndiaBraquemard, EnglandFvirefly Magazine, USAPphoo, IndiaTaj Mahal Review, IndiaRemark Magazine, USA
Journal Of Anglo-Scandianvian Poetry, England

[edit] ANTHOLOGIES:
His poems appear in the following anthologies:Shaken & Stirred (Bewrite Books, UK, 2003)Routes – Twelve Poets (Bewrite Books, UK, 2004)A Road Less Traveled (Bewrite Books, UK, 2005)Poetry from the Far Corners (Bewrite Books, UK, 2005)Listening to the birth of crystal (Paulapublishing, 2004) EnglandPeoplespoet 2 (Paulapublishing, 2005) EnglandThe Black Mountain Review, IrelandThe Review of contemporary poetry (Bluechrome, 2005) England
The book of hopes and dreams (Bluechrome, 2006) England

[edit] ONLINE:
The poet’s work appears in many literary collections and journals online,such as http://home.earthlink.net/~mjoneve/6sub.html Poetry Soul to Soul,http://www.othervoicespoetry.org/vol4/hansen/index.html Other Voices,http://www.literati-magazine.com/magazine_features/winter05/poetry/jan-hansen.html Literati,http://www.art-arena.com/johansen.htm World Poems/Art Arena,http://poetryinacup.org/janoskarhansen/ Poetry in a Cup,http://www.interpoetry.com/janoskarhansen6.html Interpoetry,and many others. He is a resident poet at http://poetrychambers.blogspot.com/ AucklandPoetry.com.
A name search will bring you to more of the poet's work online and to links to his books.

[edit] REVIEWS (excerpts):
Kathryn McL. Collins for BeWrite Books http://www.bewrite.net/merchant2/4.00/merchant.mv?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=B&Product_Code=1-904492-18-5&Category_Code=PO
"Jan Oskar Hansen’s attitudes are evident in his poetry: his wish that people were kinder and gentler; his abhorrence of war, his sense of humour about the senseless things people, including himself, have done. But it’s his love of plants, animals and all of nature - such a great admiration that he often uses personification, giving nature human qualities and emotions in his poems—that is most evident. Perhaps it’s this quality - along with a tongue-in-cheek sense of humour - that makes his poems so unique and endearing. Letters from Portugal is divided into six chapters: On Love, On War, On People, On Poetry, Hansen Snapshots, and Letters from Portugal: actual letters from the poet to his editor.
"There's something for everyone here - even those who aren't frequent readers of poetry will be moved by Hansen's passion, amused by his sarcasm, and delighted by his ability to paint pictures of the simple things in ordinary life - making them extraordinary."
Tony Lewis-Jones, Bristol Evening Post (June 25, 2003)”Jan Oskar Hansen writes with an openness and simplicity which will refresh the most jaded of palates. His extraordinary achievement in Letters from Portugal ranks him as an important new voice in global poetry.”
Joneve McCormick, Writer’s Cramp (November, 2006)“A merchant seaman for many years, widely-read, open and willing to be known, the poet imparts to his work the depth and range of one who has traveled the seven seas of his inner and outer worlds. Some words and phrases used to describe his poems include: witty, entertaining, loving, bawdy, profound, erotic, very accessible, told by a born story teller and politically incorrect. He is a born poet and a well-disciplined professional, adept at integrating his mixes of reality and fantasy, metaphor and simile into creations that seem to effortlessly capture the human experience with simple and stunning originality. He removes the masks of ordinariness from his subjects and engages his readers on many levels.”
Retrieved from "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/JAN_OSKAR_HANSEN"
Views
Article
Discussion
Edit this page
History
Personal tools
Sign in / create account

if (window.isMSIE55) fixalpha();
Navigation
Main page
Community portal
Featured content
Current events
Recent changes
Random article
Help
Contact Wikipedia
Donations
Search

Toolbox
What links here
Related changes
Upload file
Special pages
Printable version
Permanent link
Cite this article


This page was last modified 13:58, 31 January 2007.
All text is available under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License. (See Copyrights for details.) Wikipedia® is a registered trademark of the Wikimedia Foundation, Inc., a US-registered 501(c)(3) tax-deductible nonprofit charity.
Privacy policy
About Wikipedia
Disclaimers
if (window.runOnloadHook) runOnloadHook();

old friend gone

Old Friend Gone.

My old friend died suddenly, we used to go
drinking a lot when young, lately, however
I hadn’t seen much of him, as we get older
we ought to look after our friends they slip
away so easily. At the cemetery they took
the lid of the casket so we could have a last
look, peaceful, god had given him an easy
death; I could read in the faces of other old
men, dark dread; soon it would be one of
us, forever silent in a casket. The funereal
had sharpened my senses children’s voices,
from the playground, and birdsong; spring
air clear, and I could see the hazy mountain
of my dreams and yearnings.

The wide Road

The Wide Road

This olive grove has been here for generations
the old couple who now pick olive, used to
play around the tree when their parents did
what they are doing now, an endless cycle of
toil and oil. But a motorway is slowly coming
this way under an orgy of cement and asphalt
land, almond trees and farms quickly disappear
it is as it never existed; and before you know
it the grove too will be gone and forgotten, for
now, like the roman roads, this motorway will,
in time break up be a faint scar in the landscape
and used as building material by the rightful
owners of this land and time will, as it always
has done, rectify human foolishness.

the difference love makes

The difference love makes.

They called you a tart, I defended you
said you’re a free spirit, and the laughed
with my ox hide whip I chased liars and
thieves out of the bar…and we became
lovers. You didn’t stop this free spirited
behaviour, disappeared for days untidy
came home smelling of other men; my
sophistication crumbled I struck out and
it all ended; strange really hadn’t I loved
you, we could have become great friends.

the striker

The Striker.

When death stalks, near the houses, it makes
us into ghosts that fearsome hide in shadows
as not to be seen, lest it should cast a viscous
eye upon us…and how wrong we are.

It is the light we should seek; celebrate spring,
chase death down the vale, throw into the sea
where it can drown in is own un-deadly- ness;
so we can, for a moment, feel immortal.

Cupid

Cupid?

On this cold February day wind blows from
the North and my almond tree sings of love,
unfulfilled and lost affection and undefined
longings; in the tree’s case not being able
to move, standing still all day with roots, not
entwined with the one you love, but to, say,
a staid olive perennial, gnarled and ugly to
look at. It hopes that its song and words of
love will be heard by the slender almond tree
in the next field, the one that wears pink
flowers, now in spring and stands too close
to a pompous oak where stygian ravens live.
Fret not my tree I’ve heard your words and
and will relay your message at twilight time.

big city night

Big City Night

Saw a painting once, a man in a brown suit
and hat, sat by the counter, in a café eating
a late night meal; the man looked city lonely
rented room, neon light outside his window
Steamed up café window shadowy figures
moving slowly, this misty evening when
traffic is subdued, and it’s my turn to eat
a late meal and leaf through a newspapers
a guest left behind before going to his rented
room looking out of his window seeing
a neon light that reflects itself on wet asphalt
to it’s run over by a yellow cab.

Evening.


The sky is pale blue and afar, a few dank clouds
hang about, too frozen to move; twilight walks
across the land and soon the ruin across the road
will look mysterious and unsold.

Work, done, hours of dreams have only produced
a few meager words, looking tiny and trite on paper;
there is no escape only a lines between me and
the cold enormity of the winter sky.

On the Reef.

Long, our voyages, across many oceans,
sailing in a fortune for the shipping nobility
not that we minded, both them and the state
told us how good we’re and we walked tall
and were honest. It began as a faint rumour
a whispering cloud of discontent, we’re to
demanding our income too high, seafarers
from third world countries could do our job
for less than half the price. Clouds became
a thunderstorm and when weather cleared
we were ashore were we walked close to
buildings as we met no sympathy by those
who read how good our life had been; and
many drowned in the big swells of neglect

prisoner of war

Prisoners of War.

It has been, there under the surface of awareness,
a memory that called to be clearly remembered,
I could not stop it growing from a vague outline
to a cinema screen clarity

1944, as a five years old, I used to give scraps of
food to Russian prisoner, near our farm; they in
turn gave me wooden toys.

One February day, as I walked there as usual the gate
was wide open, prisoners lay on the ground, and
I heard twigs snap.

It began to snow and it didn’t melt when landing on
white faces; unable to move, stood there till bodies
were covered by a shroud of snow… and endless was
the stillness.

A man came, walked me back to the farm, never told
anyone what I had seen, perhaps the farmer knew
he spoke of nightmares.

senryu

Senryu


A muscular weed
Outside a greenhouse
Is a spirit free.


Senryu

Tired flowers
Fade in a crystal vase
Binned tomorrow


Senryu

A cushy orchid
Hothouse warm and snug
Seeks no freedom.

fadin phantomes

Fading Phantoms

To get into the flat, from the communal hallway, I had
to go through the kitchen; empty, cooker, fridge gone,
the living room was bare too furniture and travel books
dumped on the rubbish tip by people who didn’t care to
know how other folks live. No curtains, a shaft of light,
unnerving silence, a hum that never changes beat; began
when man picked an apple from a juicy tree and learned
there is no free lunch and had to leave the enchanted, go
plough meager soil; the hum will end when last man has
gone and the light is switched off again.

On the floor black framed a leaflet, psalms suitable for
funereal: “Take my hand lord and lead me from
darkness to light” it struck me that the people I knew
as a child, are now dead and forgotten, in my memory
too, they are hazy figures; also the family ghost that
used to open doors, blow cold air when I was alone,
has left. Dropped the leaflet on the floor, which creaked
as the burden of this world’s travail rested on it planks,
so I left, didn’t close any doors, what’s the use, you see,
my past is a dream and abstract is my future.

innocence

Innocence

Naked I a walked down the town’s avenue
modestly held, the spring flowering twig, of
an almond tree, in front of me. Aware of my
vulnerability I scanned the eyes of passer byes,
not a flicker of surprise (was I not miffed?)
Everything went well confident again I could
smile to the world. At the fruit and vegetable
market, a throng of people, I bought a pound of
new potatoes, (try sauté them in real butter)
but since I didn’t carry a wallet gave the kind
lady my flowering twig. Turmoil, a naked man
amongst us…and cold too by the looks of it;
derisive laughter. Tied to a donkey and pelted
with rotten fruit, slapped by leeks and celery,
I was chased out of town and into thorny bushes

Not a Janus Mask

Not a Janus Mask.

Drank wine and was dizzy for day, the African mask
on the wall, woke to life, drumbeat, coconut oil and
rum, said it was guys like me, Nordic missionary types,
who had robbed him of dignity, land and language.

“But I have never been to Africa.” “Doesn’t matter
you are guilty by your society’s insensitivities to other
cultures, and as you are a European, also anti Semitic,
especially if you criticize Israel.

“I resent what you said, but I defend your right to say
it,” I uttered and offered the mask a glass of wine;
which it declined, but whispered, under my breath,
that it is difficult to be racial offensive to someone
who is confident and proud of his ancestors travail.

“That remark shows how little you understand,” said
the mask and spoke no more. Soundless, empty eyes,
black as night, a soul had spoken, but not in vain.

Prey for the Hunter


Somewhere in Texas people with guns, they
don’t often get to use, pay good money to
hunt semi feral, free range pigs; easy target
fat and white, just wait behind a bush and
your killer instinct will soon be sated.

In case you have wondered, there are black
pigs too, but they are not hunted, one has to
be careful these days, not to upset minorities;
they are, however, rounded up and clubbed
their meat is of great gourmet quality

a hanging offence

A Hanging Offence.

The Iraqi woman living in exile, in Jordan,
with her two handicapped daughters, said:
“Under Saddam healthcare was universal,
the Americans don’t tell you that.”

She, just doesn’t get it, “free health care”
is undemocratic in a free society, it robs
private health industry of the right to make
money out of our common frailties.

Tanka

Tanka (Self Portrait)

Tanned, aged face
Narrow, autocratic lips
Faded blue eyes
A hardening of sentiment
I am a powerless tyrant.

Tanka

Saddam Hussein
Hanged a thousand times
Hard dark eyes
Taunted by the small people
Died as he lived, no regrets.