the sea

The Sea

Silent sea dark and deep, on your surface I skimmed
for years, feared you too sleepless nights, mountainous
waves when my only defence was luck; romantically
thought that you had secrets to divulge when hearing
whispers in the tropical night. Now I know it isn’t so
and that makes life sadder than it ought to be, endlessly
wet you are Saragossa weed, fog and terrifying sharks;
like everything else, you suffer from advanced pollution
but when I hear the melancholic fog horn sing, late in
the night, I wish I were skimming your surface again.

african justice

African Justice

On the porcelain plate the residue
of a burnt down
candle light so all life and
sorrow must end,
yet the cur barks in the night
and the bakery
opens at five.
And morning bustles began
in Ruanda a the machete welding
thugs began
their senseless slaughter
blood on loaves and on hands
of the killers;
sated they begged
forgiveness,
yet didn’t return the rings and
money they had stolen;
as so many were guilty
a truth and reconsolidation
was formed, no one really cared
Ruanda is a backward land
it is even difficult to
find the cursed, fly infested place
on the map.

the birthday party

The Birthday Party


It was mother’s ninetieth birthday and I had arranged
the party at a nice rural hotel, plenty of food, wine
and cakes. Many people came there were wishes
flowers and the press was there, they all waited for my
twin brother Jurgen to show up he was a famous
right wing politician, he and mother were both
right winged wishing the good old days when there was
order and discipline to return.

A police officer came to see me, an been an accident
on the motorway, brother was involved and he wasn’t
coming to the party or any others. All that food and
flowers I rang the local old people’s home for them to
come and get it, worst of all it was left to me inform
my mother. She is blaming me now, if I had arranged
the bash in the town where Jurgen lived, he would
have been alive now

rendzvous

The Rendezvous


Saw her sitting by the window at the railway station’s
restaurant talking to an older man, I didn’t stop had
she looked out it would have been awkward since we
had broken up. I walked to the other side of the street
and stood looking at her in deep the shadow of
an oak tree, I loved her and felt emotionally raw and
tearful. She got up kissed the man lightly and left.

So she was going on a train journey, I got on to
the terminal and at a distance watch her take her seat
and leafing through a magazine, as the train started she
looked up and out saw me, looked pleased knocked on
the window and mouthed something, ran towards
the train but it gathered speed so I waved and waved
till long after the train had left

Walked back into the restaurant to ask her friend for
her address, an empty beer glass, he had gone and
I never saw my beloved again.

the forgotten one

The forgotten One

She was the wife of a famous prisoner, the world
Looked her way and expected greatness; a burden
She tried to bear, but was ill equipped for.

She was a vibrant woman of blood and emotion,
Not some tragic virgin wife waiting patiently for
Her man to come home. The world turned against
Her, scandals and gossip followed, she was found
Guilty for being true to herself.

The great man was released from prison and became
The president of his jailers; now he is a living saint,
No one asks:” What happened to Winnie Mandela?”

Heroism

Heroism


Days with winter rain were endless, little snow
mother wasn’t coming home from the sanatorium,
I had read a book about cowboys, they were tough
and hanged cattle thieves. A thin rope, a thread
used to wrap parcels I threw over a bough tied it
around my neck and thought of all the people who
would be sorry when hearing of my demise; thought
of that brought tears to my eyes. Stood on a chair
jumped off immense pain, struggled to get hold on
something, the rope broke and I was reborn.
Told the kids at school, showed them red marks on
my neck, but they didn’t believe me; which taught
me that a daring deed is nothing if performed alone
and not recorded,

the competition

The Competition

In the fallow where the land dipped
autumn rain collected formed a lake
that had no name but in the winter
it froze and I had an ice rink.

After school I skated for hours around
and around till I got quite giddy, but I
did win every race against the winter
sports hero of the day.

There wasn’t any witnesses to my
many sporting achievement except
the wild ducks that didn’t flew south
but used my lake as a landing pad.

I skated so fast that I took lift, flew
and saw the flat landscape from above
every pond, house and trees; but when
landing I usually fell flat on my face.

…And when I tired sat on frozen straw
and the ducks took over, I felt tired and
good as I listened to silence and the sky
was big and I was declared a winner.

Child's Play

Child’s Play


The brook, which ran across the field, was knee
deep and slow running, I often put two pieces of
wood adrift at one end, pretended they were boats,
then running downstream to see which one came
first. My boat won; I cheated, but acted as I didn’t
know. The farms were few and far between and
no children around, except for a little girl but she
was busy playing with dolls.

At times I stood in the stream, very still, was
fascinated the way the water ran around my
legs and I was an island. When I began school
I didn’t know how to play with children, told
them how I played at home, when they laughed,
I hit one of them over the head with a wooden
clog. I was good to come home from school go
down to the brook and be an island again.

deadly sex

Deadly sex

I knew she was seeing other men but pretended
I didn’t know didn’t risk confront her,
It pleased her ego to have sex with many men.
She wanted me to know about her infidelity it
made her lusty. She hinted she teased, bloody
games she played and our love got more intense,
anger was involved, left scars on our mind and
our bodies. It was love that kills, I didn’t play
that game, her next lover strangulated her… how
easily it could have been me. Desperate to win
her love I nearly killed her twice

senryu

Senryu

Red plastic roses
Faded sepia by neglect
Melancholic bouquet


Senryu

Red plastic noses
For us to look at and laugh
Sad is the joker


Senryu

The gloomy guy
At the traveling circus
Is its funny clown

dog years

Dog Years.


It’s been two years gone, but I sill
find strands of dog hair in corners,
(doesn’t say much for my cleanliness)
twelve years we had together she even
came on holiday with me; and when
a new woman came into my life she
didn’t make a fuzz sure as she was of
my love for her.

I lift a strand of her hair up to the lamp
light and remember the cruel day when
she got in the path of a car, when I sense
a movement behind me, the swishing of
a tail dare not turn around, but when I do
I see a shadow fading. Goose pimple on
my arms:” you dreaming fool, go brew
yourself a nice cup of tea.”

winter storm (tanka style)

Winter Storm


North Atlantic winter,
shafts of sunlight race across
glass green mountains
deep fear inducing valleys,
in the mess, talk is subdued;

forecast is stormy.
New York is suddenly afar
but will we get there?
A bow down a watery vale
and not coming up again.

Smoke a cigarette,
she takes the sea like a duck.
Try getting some sleep
storm is always worst at night
daylight somehow calms the seas.

poetry reading in Oslo

Poetry Reading in Oslo September 2008

These cold massive buildings, housing
national art and treasures, cold, frosty
clean window shining like Himmler’s
glasses; ice blue eyes keeping an eye on
you; making sure you’re not trespassing
with unbecoming laughter and silencing
you into submission. Fear full we left
a day early and flew towards the sun.

senryu and tanka

Senryu

In the night
All flowers are colourless
Give me the day



Tanka

Last night, wonderful!
Sang beneath a street lamp
Supreme confidence
Today I sit in darkness
And is my old fearful self.


Senryu

In obscurity
The moon caresses graveyards
Give me the sun

inventiveness

The Inventiveness

The flour swept
up from the floor
She took home,
enough to make
four loaves;
the black bits and
pieces in them
she said was
grounded nuts
and raisins,
the bent thumb tack
My sister found
she called good
a good luck charm.

short summer

Short Summer (Tanka)

Lamb on blue I saw
Went indoors drank a few beers
Came back out again
The lamb were now grazing sheep
Darksome as the winter sky

intermezzo

Intermezzo


From my third floor flat I looked down
and saw two men sat under a tree sharing
a bottle of wine, went down and joined
them with my bottle of best red.

I sat under a tree with two men we were
sharing a bottles of wine, looked up and
saw my shadow lurk behind the curtain,
I smiled and waved, free at last.

Aliens

The Aliens

The still warm sun and the zephyr is keep
winter at bay, there is sadness in the air, as
a farewell that can’t be delayed and the boy
has run to the outer fields, sits on a stone
pats his dog and learns about the unavoidable.

Dark clouds from the north where nature is
solemn and there’s not a hint of frivolities
in their cities architecture, winter in hearts,
will disperse heartless protestant culture that
does not allow for lofty dreams and passion.

The zephyr is now a chilly wind, new rules
people must work harder, the leaders say,
and the almond tree must stop flowering in
mid winter spreading unseemly thoughts of
May, love and nights of passion.

whirlpool

Whirlpool



When I opened my eyes in the dark bedroom
I saw a universe with myriads of coloured
Lights like an rainbow that had exploded and
Fragmented into millions of pieces

Vail of mists sailed by, once they had been
Mighty clouds full of thunder and lightning
Now they were a mere whisper of a memory,
Yet their silence overwhelmed me.

There is no human voice here, in this realm
Of oblivion, I strain to hear even the faintest
Noise be it of animal or man, as the stillness
Drags me under in a vortex of nothingness.

the good time

The Good Times

I used to be a seafarer, sailors meet and part
just like ships, nick name is used to avoid
friendship, so when one leaves the ship he is
easily forgotten; what was his name again?

I never worked in an office and knew not
of the scheming going on but I disliked,
when I worked in one, the false smiles and
the hidden knives and gossip

I knew nothing of networking and to whom
to have a drink with in a pub and since
I wasn’t interested in promotion, those who
failed cried on my shoulder

When I left, I did quickly and was saved
bland words; “come back and visit us
anytime.” My god, I left because I couldn’t
stand to hear about their tiny problems

I’m glad I have been spared retirement, to
sit on a chair by the sunny wall and talk
about the past; like the old day should be
anything to hanker for

Time marched on life is easier now than
before, but sadly people stay the same
and that’s a shame; it is as we feel guilty
for having it all and to struggle a bit more.

Yes, you are right I’m a right old prick
lives frugally and take the bus into town
believe in eternal peace and bicycles,
it’s a wonder I haven’t died of boredom.

poetry festival in Oslo

Poetry Festival in Oslo

Poetry bash in Oslo Norway I was invited,
should I be pleased? I was skeptical from
the outset, so I paid for my own journey
just as well what I found was that we all had been
had there was a hidden agenda here, I sensed
its murkiness it was not poetry from the likes
of me this was about, but it was about the promotion
“o gay literature.” Ok, nothing wrong with that
but at least they could have been honest about it,
perhaps the people from the department were
fooled too

tanka and double tanka

Tanka

Ashes on the sea
A showy and mean gesture
From earth to earth
Let me fertilize a tree,
Say, a flowering almond tree



Tanka (double)

It was so sudden
I had just parked the car
Outside the big mall
Flashing pain and deep silence
Wait now in a dark morgue

For you to claim me
If not a paupers grave waits
Not that it matters
It’s all such bloody vanity The need to be remembered

tanka

Tanka

The seashell I found
On the people empty beach
I can’t listen to
If the siren’s calls my name
I will drown in her embrace

Rainbow coalition

Rainbow Coalition


On a fence in that part Chile from Argentina
there is a long barbed wire fence full of plastic
bags, some from posh shops in Paris, London
and New York, There are Japanese bags too
and some with Arabic letters, you can say it is
international garbage fence, but not quite, it is
eerily beautiful like a pale sad rainbow.

There used to be skeletons here too they all had
broken bones as dropped from planes, but
they have been removed now if you are lucky
or ghoulish you might find a collar bone or two
or a skull cleans by the wind; indestructibly sacks
flap, so deafening that you can’t hear the song of
the condors.

suddenly one day

Suddenly one Day…

Warm day
hot wind blows
makes it
difficult to breath
inhale dust
I can’t see
a layer or red
on the car
inside too
Pain in chest
I curl up on
the back seat
sleep
When I awake
I’m not dead
wind has calmed
I feel fine
up my nostrils,
I can smell
Africa

A Landscape

A Landscape

Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled
trees, silence speaks of the final peace.
Grotesque dead trees, daylight ghosts, stand there
with dead grey boughs stretching upward appealing
to a fairytale god, “give us today a new life” but
no, there is only one god he is almighty, and hears
not your fearful whispered wishes, those who do
not understand are doomed to a life of an empty
pursuit for pleasures, crowding nightclubs and
casinos trying to avoid being alone with the night
and facing the truth: we are mortal and heaven is
to be remembered for a while by other mortal.
Faces in a black frame seeing you seeing through
into nothingness. Yet I fear not this landscape as it
is shunned by man and no harm can happen to me
here except the inevitable

The Long Delusion

The Long Delusion

I sat in a café when she came in, hadn’t seen her
for ten years, she had aged badly, used to be slim
now she was scrawny, and her glorious red hair
had lost its lustre. Her eyes grey and bland, they
used to light up and shine as diamonds in the heat
of the night, perhaps they still did. She sat down
we had coffee talking about harmless things

Then she said: “Why did you always give in and
agree with me when we had an argument?”
I was going to say: “I wasn’t interested enough in
the cause to argue about it” but said: You know
me dear, everything for a bit of peace in the house.”
I thought it was because you didn’t love me,” she
said and for a moment looking lost.

I was an island in a stream of people, but hear and
saw nothing, what a fool, how deluded, I had been
all those years, of course I didn’t love her, it was her
warm embrace I had yarned for and still did.
When I looked up to agree with her for the last time
She had gone she had gone, her scent lingered in
The air, then dissipated as all things must.

helping Banks

Helping the Banks


The night is as obscure as homemade wine the TV screen
casts a grave light in a room that has no shadow; presidents
and prime ministers appear tell us of financial woes, even
the forgotten George Bush is there; they say they are doing
the best they can and that savers money is safe; but I know
they are as powerless as I’m, but they were the ones who
let lose the beast of a free market believing in the myth that
it would correct itself that is to ask a drunk to stop drinking,
gallons of booze and it are all free. “And your money is safe”
is not true, when a bank goes belly up the savers money is
the first to go. Had I money I would take them out and place
them under my mattress but since I’m broke I tell you.
They will try to stop you say it will make matters worse, so
let it; withdrawing you money is the only power you have,
you have little to lose, they will lose everything for without
your cash they are nothing

Dick Whittington....

Dick Whittington and…


I tell my moggy that sits by the door and wants to go out
hunting in the night, that cats can only be taken out when
on a lead, because they kill sparrows and other birds; the world
is falling apart, banks are closing and the rich has to sell
their second yacht, while my terrace is full of bird droppings,
The cat is not doing its job;

am I supposed to clean up after them, fat birds feeding only
on rose petals and an ineffective cat that can’t keep order.
I’ve to get another cat one that isn’t tainted by bird calls and
not addicted by seed.

We have to change the world friendship only softens
the guardians who think they should eat from a golden troth
while we are served mud cakes from a plastic sack

And as I watch Tony Blair speak about this crises looking as
innocent as a house cat, it dawns on me that we really have to
cut off the balls of all male cats so they can’t go around
being paid for spreading obnoxious scent all over the place

the storm

A Tempestade (The Storm)
By Ibn Suhayd 992-1034


In darkness
Each flower opens its mouth
And drink from the teats of
Fertile rain


Loaded with water
Armies of black clouds
Majestically
Marches
With golden swords of lightning

animal concern

Animal Concern


I ought to protest for all, the world, they are killing
Bulls for fun in Spain. Elegant, but murderous men
with handkerchiefs folded up their crotch to give
illusion of big balls struts about with slim swords
and capes killing the stupid beast when it is tired of
a game it doesn’t understand.

When I think of the Roma children who drowned on
a beach in Italy and lay there for ours under bright
towels, while bathers, unconcerned went about their
business, when I think of these unlawful wars and
a bigger one that will engulf us all, then I must admit
that I don’t give a shit about Spanish bulls

addiction

Addiction

Rain has abated
A man under an awing
Counts falling raindrops
He has little else to do
He stopped smoking last night


Fiddles with a lighter
Clicks it on and off forever
Giggles to himself
Kicks in a sweetshop window
Grabs a handful of “all sorts”

no comment

No Comment

So here we sit shielding behind Sunday
and unspoken boredom leafing through
newspapers that predict the fall of
the society as we know it, without Wall
Street, the darkness beckons.

Crisis, we can’t all have a home, whom to
blame, if this time, not the Jews the Persians
can come in handy. Wars are ritual
bloodletting 30-40 million dead and nature
will restore it self

The ice caps will refreeze a clear distinction
between the seasons, above all, Wall Street
will bloom again, politicians will extol our
capitalism, and we will be told not to envious
of those who are filthy rich.

autumnal sunday

Autumnal Sunday


Rain, it is October the month of melancholy
and you know that the blue sky and sun of
yesterday was just another foolish illusion
the cock didn’t crow this morning and dogs
ears didn’t move when a stranger’s voice
echoed in narrow streets, they knew it was
the voice of doom;

the harvester had arrived in coming month
the old would succumb to the damp breath
of death; not too many tears shed, faces in
a black frame, yes, that’s the way it is we
understand death if not our own. Dogs need
not be told, they snooze sure they are own
their own immortality

alitre of wine

A litre of wine


The wine in the glass is full the red liquid arches the slightest
movement and it will spill over and run down the stem like
a bleeding stomach wound trickling down a petrified leg.
I bent down and inhaled the wine no spillage and I wondered
why it is so many people, in fact more and more drink beer
that is no longer a natural brew is it because we are no longer
a part of nature and seek and feel more at ease with man made
products and we will soon have a diet that fits with the work
we are doing, say if you want a double cheeseburger with fries
you first have to work shuffling coal for twelve hours,

but if you only want to sit writing a simple poem about
the country side low fat yogurt for you; if you have written
the poem under the influence of a steak you will be censured,
made to walk in the park and tell everyone you’re a crock of
empty of gold empty of anything a modern society such as
networking banalities and get people to buy what they don’t
need; men get medals and titles for doing that. So what do
I care, but it annoys me that I end up buying a soap which
name I have seen on the television and smell like everybody
else, yeah…isn’t that just nice?

Livorno Mon amour

Livorno Mon Amour



Livorno this dreary harbour port, not Rome and now in
winter a ghost town, every window shuttered telling not
of life inside. Into the bar came a young woman, long legs
like a colt, she was frozen warmed her hand and fanny by
the fire. I thought she looked like the American I had once
seen the shadow of in Trieste, I offered her a drink, she
had a coke, then she left to resume her lonely profession.
Later that night I saw her by a corner and as cold rain hung
In the air; I took her to an hotel, got heating going, she
jumped into bed ready to do her duty, but I was pensive
waiting to write a poem about Trieste.

When I awoke tired morning light seeped through holed
curtains, the girl had put a blanket around me in the night
I was grateful for that. We breakfasted; she had fried eggs
and ham, I drank coffee and a little brandy. Saw her dance
down the street, yes she looked like an eager colt. Hoped
she would meet a rich man, marry him and become his
respectable whore instead of ending up an old diseased
slag begging drinks from men who are ready to debase her.
Two days later I took the train to Trieste, I asked around
but no one had seen the American girl and the poem was
never written.

the jogger

The Jogger

They said he had invented jogging and he was quite
addicted to his invention, ran every afternoon longer
and longer distances; till he dropped dead.
“He had congenital heart disease and would have died
anyway,” the defenders of jogging said.

Sure but that’s not the point he could have died when
copulating, angling, having a splendid meal with wine
or congenial drink with friends in the bar, and not
prancing about in shorts on a cold road alone a chilly
autumnal evening.

o marmelo

O Marmelo (a pear shaped fruit of
the quince, tree can also mean
“Saio de Mulher” Bosom)
Al-Musahfi ca 982
Translated from
old Portuguese by Jan Oskar Hansen

O Marmelo
Is of the colour yellow that of shame
A narcissist’ tunic and it has a musky
Penetrating aroma

As the perfume of once beloved and has
The same force as the heart but has
The colour of one who is in love and
haggard.

Her paleness is but an imprint of my pallor
And my breath has the aroma
Of my woman’s breaths

Fragrant when the fruit is lifted from the branch
Under the brocade of woven leaves, suavely
In my hand I carry it indoors and put it as
A costly treasure, in my alcove

Dressed in grey down which flutters on its
Smooth golden body

And when in my hand, naked sans its shirt-
The colour of narcissism- makes me record
What I can’t express as the heat of my vigor
Fades and drips between my fingers

tomorrows world

Tomorrows World


So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.

We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.

This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die

the disappeared

The Disappeared

The man, in our village, who died last
year is now entirely forgotten, since
he passed away- before Christmas-
someone else had to come kill the pigs.

His wife has shed her mourning dress
has got a lover, he arrives late at her
house and leaves at dawn; we know
and decorously pretend we don’t

It is a bit frightening to realize who
quickly the deceased are forgotten,
it must be so it’s good for our ego
to see how insignificant we are.

There is a new killer of pigs now, he
lives in the next village and it is said
he’s even better at it then the one who
expired; what was his name again?

As I write these meager lines millions
have died, some in agony we cannot
shed tears for the world’s monotony,
forget and welcome the newborns.

So, hold on to life do not strangle it
with impossible demands of longevity
smell the rose they are demises perfume
and hope you’ll see tomorrow’s sunrise.

tomorrow's world

Tomorrows World


So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.

We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.

This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die

tanka for you

Tanka

Quiver in fingers
Folded as a butterflies wings
Long is the day after
Suckling pig and strong wine
And too early for a beer

white skin

Original Title
A Tez Branca
By IBN ABD RABBINI
Ca 860 - 940
White Skin


A thing like this
Have we never
Heard of,
The reward for modesty
A goat horn transformed
Into a pearl


So very shiny her face
When contemplating
Its perfection, that the real
Face vanishes in its
Own clarity

The proletariat

The Proletariat

A creamy butterfly
Sat on a big yellow rose,
Softly fluttering wings
Betrayed its modest presence
A common sparrow swooped.

I sadly concluded:
The masses don’t care for art
Busy as they are,
Wedded to a life of work,
No time to stop and wonder.

Denmark mon Amour

Denmark, Mon Amour


Aarhus, Denmark, yes I was there many years ago,
perhaps the place has changed but I doubt it. Met
a woman there her name was Margot, about my age,
a racy thirty, I was off a ship going home next day.

How perfectly we danced together and how I liked
the promising glint in her brown eyes, yes she was
the right one for me; and when the bar closed it was
only natural that I followed her home.

But as she turned the key on the lock of her door,
she asked me for money, shocked I mumbled yes,
but wondered if I would be able to after this cold
shower of naked reality

She had a dog and as she put a mattress on the floor
for us to lie on, the dog kept glaring at me, its eyes
were spiteful eyes night after night it saw men doing
things to her it could only dream of

I took my trousers off and tried to get through this
act of loves’ betrayal when the dog had had enough
and bit my bum, I began giggling and gave up this
pretense and we’re all relieved when I left.

autumnal song

An Autumnal Song

Autumn in the park leaves keep falling off trees,
silently just like snow; many people around,
children behave themselves and dogs do ditto

Oslo enjoys a rare threat, a clear Saturday sky,
soon there will be massive rain falls, later sleet and
endless snow, and naked tree will suffer for our sins.

Tomorrow I’ll return to Portugal, where leaves fall
off trees too, but in time of decay the almond tree
will flower and strew silky snow on my way.

Peace will come over me, the burden of nostalgia
and sadness that made me weary in Oslo will leave,
and I will be free of my past.

I have lived in here twenty years, that’s how old I’m
having been born twice, first time I had no say in
the matter, but this time, however, I willed it.

And I shall go on living here amongst thorny bushes,
olive, carob and almond trees, I will not leave again
until my journey comes to an end

lovesick blues

It’s Love, You See.


Knocked on the lovely ladies door, asked if
I could weed the flowers in her front garden,
mow the lawn and trim her hedge. She smiled,
said she has a man in the house to do it.
“Next year?” “Perhaps,” she said and gently
closed the door. Then it was autumn, leaves
flew trough the air making me feel blue;
then winter with snow, and from my window
I saw see her garden looked like every one
else’s, suburbia landscape

Spring came suddenly and her garden was
a mess, weeds were strangulating her flowers,
the lawn a jungle, her hedge looked like
a broken accordion. I walked over and asked
her again, she was in a foul mood, said: “I could
do what I wanted but don’t expect her to be
grateful, I hate men you’re all alike,” with that
she slammed the door shut. It took me weeks
to get the garden ship shape, but when all was
perfect I knocked on her door again.


She came out into the summer sun shine, but
she wasn’t alone leaning her head against
a man’s shoulders she smiled up to me with
teeth that looked like marble headstones in
a Spanish graveyard in moonlight, and her
eyes had the hard glint of sapphires. From my
window I can see her garden it’s lit up by
the light of her bedroom window, and when
the light is switched off I still sit there, tell
myself that I don’t lover her anymore.

sunday Reflections

Sunday Reflections


Oslo airport, outside the sun shines cold and
the sky is a sheet of blue ice. Three days I spent
in Oslo looking at dwellings, near the castle,
nicely done up they were just like whores who
have had the good fortune marrying a rich idiot,
forgotten is the shady past, serious mien the poor
husband never gets a leg over now.

Hardy people the Oslo inhabitants are drink beer
with ice lumps in while it snows, this because
they can’t go inside to smoke, their hearts too frozen
too show any emotion other than watching porno.
I wanted to say halloo to my old friend the king,
knocked on the castle’s door his dim witted son
opened, I pinned a note on his forehead and left.

It’s nice to sit inside the warm airport knowing
soon I’ll be back in Portugal, it isn’t perfect and
rich, but the people have a song in their hearts
and the weather is for walking in her landscape,
beer is very cheap too and so is good bottle of
plonk. But roots are deep, when leaving I cried
a little, wish I could love my country a little more.

Literature

Literature

Tomorrow I’ll be in Oslo, Norway, haven’t been there
for than twenty years. My brother lived in Oslo, back
then I knocked on his door, he didn’t open siblings’,
rivalry; told him I was living for Portugal and not
coming back; his silence distressed me and now he’s
dead. Yes, so I loved his wife and she came with me,
to Portugal. Tomorrow night I will be in Oslo…alone,
yes she left me too but I ain’t bitter I’ve been around for
quite awhile. By his graveside I’ll explain it all whether
he likes it or not, and make him understand that I made
a favour taking her away from his academic life; after
with her in the house he wouldn’t have been able to
write a weighty tome 800 page tome like: “The future
of poetry in the age of computers and cyber speak.”

inconsequent calamity

Inconsequent Calamity.

Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;

maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.

musical houses

Musical houses
And this is not a poem

A takes B´s house, B takes C’s house,
C lives in a tent and bids his time;
end of round one.

C, sees his chance retakes his house,
B goes back and demands his
rightful house from A.

A has lost, serves him right he’s
the ant Semitic bastard who started
it all, end of game till next genocide.

Texas Gush

The Texas Gush

Surge in Baghdad and soldiers build
walls how banal, as the ocean surges
and islands disappear in the pacific;

let’s invade Nepal now, ring it with
a wall of soldiers and be safe; as sea
rises we can just climb higher up;

till we reach a bergs top, spend time
pushing each other off till there is
only one left and he kills himself;

a cold rock on the vast sea no wall
to stop its surges, but will the world
be free of annoying seagull shrikes?

inconsequent calamity

Inconsequent Calamity.

Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;

maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.

look back in sadness

Look back in Sadness.
(Written as Tanka)


Bundle of photos
Face down in a cigar box
Family and friends
From a time that is a dream
Fading into eternity

Mostly black & white
How young my parents looked
Now I’m the oldest
Siblings faded fast away
As I sailed many seas

Non returnable
Past’s gate is firmly padlocked
Wait in no mans land
Know there is no remedy
The past really is a dream.

US Soldiers

US Soldiers.


Full of propaganda and democratic zeal
the US soldiers came to Iraq; five years
later they now know there is no “Mission
Accomplished.” The soldiers have grown
up and no longer believe in this war, they
now call useless, mockingly laugh when
politicians speak of winning.

Good, working-class kids, manipulated
and lied to, from small towns and rural
communities, they are true Americans
who love their country, I salute them and
hope their leaders will think well before
asking them to fight, bleed and die for yet
another useless war.

wedding party

(Wedding Party)

Sailing down night Seine
Champagne brut and goose liver
The Eiffel Tower
Dressed in bright coloured charms
Looked like a demi monde


When the barge banked
I gave Seine the bird’s liver
Peed in the river
Studied the sliver of moon
Dreaming of ice cold lager


Paris’s night streets
September mild and at ease
Bars and bistros shut
The worthless slept in doorways
And I thought of Edit Piaf

five new haiku

Haiku

Misty night seeps down
Melancholic September
Averse sky pain for the sun


Haiku

Green moss on wet wall
The northwesterly blows rain
Normal October


Haiku

Parasols seek shelter
Courageous are umbrellas
Joust November storms


Haiku

Festive shop windows
Preen and vie for customers
Long after closing time


Haiku

Fire-works on night sky
Cannot vie with shooting stars
Quarter past twelve

four senryu (s)

Senryu

Now that I’m old
No one seeks or wants my love
Except my dog



Senryu

The girl at the till
Doesn’t see me as a person
I’m just an old face



Senryu


Graveyards are places
Where old men recall their past
And remember mum



Senryu

The fear of oldness
Can only be assuaged
By senility

review of my latest book "homecoming"

JAN OSKAR HANSEN

HOMECOMING...Prose, Poetry, Senryu

By a Norwegian sailor - stunning, candid reflections of a life on sea and land.

Published by Cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN 978-81-8253-121-5, First Edition, 140 pages, paperback, $15,00.

HOMECOMING is the third one of a triptych of poems: End Of A Voyage, Homeward Bound, Homecoming.

Hansen takes us on an unforgettable journey through his life as a high seas roller. An adventure of brilliant insights. His love, respect and understanding of both nature and humanity with all its foibles. He shocks us into another world with humour and pathos. All masterfully written in prose, poetry and senryu of literary signifance.

Jan Oskar Hansen makes us his shipmate and companion on a journey of a lifetime where we experience through his writing, each powerful, immediate, enlightening observations. His fresh individuality leads us to worlds of wonder, delights us in earthy pleasures with a philosophical twist. We become part of the tapestry he has woven of his multifaceted experiences.

We feel his emotions and passion for the written word as he witnesses many cultures, learns new languages and grows his imagination which is at once ‘dazzling’, thought provoking, candid, richly spiced with intimacy, dream, reality and vast visual vistas of profound awareness of nature in all its vitality.

In conclusion, here is an example of what you will find in HOMECOMING, Jan Oskar Hansen’s most recent brilliant achievement.

THE OLD TART

She’s and old tramp ship now, can’t afford to hire proper crew,
only harbour dregs, to take her to the next port. For some of us she’s home we try to keep her afloat a lick of paint here and there when it can be bought cheap or stolen from a warehouse, that’s getting hard now that all cargo are shipped by containers, locked and sealed. She was riding yellow swells, off Hock van Holland, when news come she’s to be sold as scrap iron the dregs are glad to be ashore bellies full of rum king. For us who loved the old lady it’s sad day, for us she will be the last ship, we know well that we don’t fit the new merchant navy regime, roll on roll off no time for poker and a little whisky.

SENRYU

The angry ocean
Left its irate foam behind
In secret coves


LOVES LAMENT

In the morning breeze I can hear you voice
softly calling my name
in the haze I can see
the contours of you face

In the meadow’s stream
I hear you laughter and
the water in the well is as clear as your tears
the day you said farewell

All in nature reminds me of you,
transient our love, like the flowering almond tree;
beauty never lasts and it was yesteryear.


HAPPY ENDING?

Love is overrated
The cynical sardonically say
But it keeps us sane




Literary review (2008) by Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Author, Poet, Visual Artist (Canada) based upon ‘Homecoming’, published by cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN978-81-8253-121-15 First Edition, 140 Pages, CAN$15.00


JAN OSKAR HANSEN (Portugal). His poems have been published in 20 literary magazines worldwide, including:
Hudson Review, USA, Skyline, USA, Skald, Wales, La rue Bella, England, The Bards, England, War is a dangerous place, England, The Black Mountain Review, Ireland, ARS Poetica India, India, Braquemard, England, Firefly Magazine, USA, Pphoo, India, Taj Mahal Review, India, Remark Magazine, USA, Journal of Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, England.

His poems appear in many anthologies. Collections ‘Letters from Portugal’ (bewrite books) Bristol, ‘La Strada’ Lapwing Publishers), Belfast, ‘End of Voyage’ (WFP New York), ‘Marilyn Monroe Remembered’ Erbacce Press, Liverpool, ‘The Fairground’ Ranch, India (out of print now).



BARBARA ELIZABETH MERCER (CANADA) Poet, Visual Artist, Author of 4 books of poetry published by Cyberwit,net (India), SECRETS, 2008, LEGACY, 2007, SELF PORTRAIT, 2006, MYSTIC WILLS, 2005. Co-author with Steve Chering, London, UK, book of poetry WHEN POETS COLLIDE, Pub. Lulu,com, USA, Her paintings, in Public Collections: University of Toronto Art Centre, Imperial Oil, Robert McLaughlin Gallery, Oshawa, Canada. Many international private collections.

machination

Machination

In my vale I hear the echo of combat,
bullets targeted forward fired by lucky
warriors who kill civilians who, with
their chattel, obscure the long view.

The right place, wrong time, blood and
bodies under canvas, tears; pledge of
vengeance. Death is clean and nattily
dressed, sport sunglasses day and night.

3 new haiku

Haiku

The vanishing act
Summer leaves the verandah
Autumn light enters

Haiku

Deepening shadows
Fallen leaves on the terrace
Time for reflections

Haiku

A summer has gone
The breeze has a chill within
Will we meet next year?

tanak on a string

Tanka

Translate Moor poems
From Portuguese to English
And hear the murmur,
An echo of poets’ songs
Going back a thousand years.


Tanka

Andalusia,
Once an Arabic province
Poets once lived there
Sat dreaming in lush gardens
Writing verses of lost love


Tanka

Andalusia,
Christians marched
Sun shone on bloodied swords
Moslem’s peaceful rule vanished
But poets’ verses live on

the sea

The Sea.

I was an orphan lost on the vast plateau
of land till I came to the coast and saw
the sea wench all beginnings sprang;

yet I swim close to shore where the sea
is clear and has no dark, mysterious spots,
she is a greedy mother her love is total;

she hates land that stole her off springs,
hammers shores and will not desist and
be at ease before all is gone.

the orange orchard

The Orange Orchard.
Original title “A Laranjeira”
By IBN Sara
Written ca ( 1123)


As wood burning bright
trees stand fruit partly
hidden coloured dots in
shadow of a green curtains

The fruit hang on a delicate
thread and silently tell of those
who have suffered and suffer
for love

I see an orange orchard as
a place that shows its fruit
as red tears of who have endured
the torments of love

Tears petrified now, yet
with depth of pain
that reaches deep the soil making
it fertile for lovers.

Corneal fruit amongst
foliage that shines as topaz,
in your hand, as sapphire,
when cut in half.

Sometimes we kiss the fruit,
other times we inhale its aroma
like it should be the beautiful
face of a lass or the perfumed
breast of a woman.

double Tanka

Double Tanka

If, say… Christ returns
Bearded and in white burnoose
Will he be seized?
And sent to Guantanamo
If he looks like Bin Laden

Water tortured
Made confess odious crimes
He is innocent of
Or just say; “not again dad”
And magically disappear.

the request

Pedino Um Falcão
By IBN al Quaturnuh
Year 1214.


The Request

O, king, son of highborn parents
And of illustrious ancestry!

You whom I worship on my knees
I ask of you a favour greater than
the most beautiful pearl on a string
made of silver thread;


honour me with the privilege of giving
you this falcon with plumage limpid
as the sky, so much loved by
the northerly wind;

and let it fly from you hand, freed
from its chain, see it soar to join
the wind;

still life

Still Life.

Mother used to have on the wall, a picture
of a dead boy in his coffin, surrounded by
flowers, candles and silence.

I often stared hard at the picture, willing
the boy to open his eyes, he never obliged
me, but came alive in my dreams.

The name of the boy’s mother was Olga she
used to visit us till mother and her fell out,
mother thought it rude to remove the picture.

Years went by, my brother died and mother
took the picture down, but it was still there,
a square less faded than the rest of the wall.

a life

A Life

Squashed hedgehog
on the road,
dog sniffs at it
unconcerned.
“What are hedgehogs for?
the child in
me asks.
The unasked
question is:
What are humans for?

the winner

The Winner

Curled up on the pavement,
The long distance runner,
In life a tall man in death
Small almost child sized

He had tried to run away
From himself, finally did
But his sleeping face bore
No smile of triumph.

loss

The Loss

An hour’s wait, in Lisbon, before catching next plane,
had a meal in a cafeteria, some sort of meat and veg,
the girl by the till is busy flirting with an employee,
I interrupted them and demanded to pay, she looked
over to a security guard, by the door, as to say:
“we have got a right one here.” Plastic fork and knife,
food, freezing cold and the knife broke in half.

Hungry I ate the vegetables, had I gone up and back
to the counter demanding service I would have been
arrested, a security risk, possible a terrorist; they treat
travelers like shit, yet travelers would have looked on
and said: serves him right, why did he have to make
a fuzz, it will only delay our flight back home so we
can get a break, holidaying is tiring now.

us well behaved

Us Well Behaved


This is a nice Brussels locality, small blokes of
flats, as daylight falls, dwellers are coming out
with wrapped parcels, that look like gifts, and
put them next to rubbish bins. Tidy, no dogs to
tear open parcels and make mess of things. Cars
are parked on the left side of the road today;
tomorrow, parking is on the right side, and so on.

Walk I do because the nice people I’m stay with,
watch football an important match, few people out
on this June evening; amble on till I see lights of
a bar, a man comes out looks around and pees up
against a wall. I find his act of revolt heartening,
but when someone shouts the man is a pig and
ought to be arrested, I cowardly flee into the bar.

poet actor

Poet/Actor/Clown

I’m a poet and showman, want you to be
amused, or sad when needed, shake your
head fondly say I’m being ridiculous, but
don’t ignore me because I’m an actor too
timid to stand in front of an audience.

I can live in the basement, at the bottom
of your garden, or in deep shadow under
a carob tree. I cut pieces off my soul, post
them to you in the hope you may feel
Entertained, laugh and think well of me.

Double Tanka

Double Tanka

If, say… Christ returns
Bearded and in white burnoose
Will he be seized?
And sent to Guantanamo
If he looks like Bin Laden

Water tortured
Made confess odious crimes
He is innocent of
Or just say; “not again dad”
And magically disappear.

three men in a car

Three Men in a Car.

Ship less docks, empty warehouses and Liverpool
was collapsing into itself; 1980 the nadir, and
hadn’t the Liver Bird been hold down by wires
she would have flown away.

I walked along the docks the winter air was full
of melancholy, an epoch had ended it waited for
renewal, there was talk of converting warehouses
into smart apartments for the bright eyed set.

Three police detective sat in a car trying to look
like civilians, stupid when does three blokes have
time to sit in a car in the middle of the day, unless
they are thieves or police.

I was just standing there looking into the water
tried to recall Marilyn’s face, zilch, and a seabird
floated in the filthy water, the officers were out of
the car, stood there looking at the lead grey sky.

Too cold and the water wasn’t clean, I looked up
and saw the Liver Bird she could do with a perm,
but there wasn’t anything cowed about her; and
what do I know? Maybe the three men were poets?

The Long Walk

Arabic poem
“Passaram” (year 979)
by al-RADI BI-LLAH

The Long Walk

When evening without
Warning falls
My wandering has
Lit a fire, my heart
Is ablaze.

It is not strange
Ones desire increases
As one walks,
Growing thirst,
There is vision of water.

the lady and the tramp

The Lady and the Tramp

I took the bus from Ellesmere Port to Birkenhead,
from there the underground to Liverpool, walked
to Hanover Street; took a rickety lift up four floors
to a studio where Miss Summers tried to teach me
to speak posh English. A hopeless task my Norse
accent refused to be relegated clung to my throat
like phlegm, the size of a jelly fish, and anyway,
when Miss Summer said my own voice was sexy
I decided to take acting lessons with her instead.

Alas this didn’t last; the doctor said I was fit to go
back to sea and I was sent to join a ship in Aruba.
I loved Miss Summers used to meet her secretly in ´
Southport on her days off, impressed me with her
noble manners it was like making love to a duchess.
The problem with being a seafarer is that when he
Returns, life ashore has moved on. My teacher lady
had an acting job, when I rang her voice was arctic
and, yes, she had also gone and married a doctor.

three Arabian/andalouse poems

Rose & Lily
Arabic/ Andalusian poem

Savour the wine
with the fragrant lily
in bloom
and during morning
form an assembly
when the rose blush.

If you suckle
the heaven’s teats
and together blend its
milk with lily, rose and
blood,
there will be a revolt,

the lily becomes whiter
than the camphor-tree-
the queen of whiteness-
and the rose- disobedient
against conformity-
becomes more divine than
red hot iron.


The Nut
Arabic/Andalusian poem

Inside equal pieces
Perfectly united
A lovely sight,
Like an eyelid
Closed in sleep;

Opens easy
With a knife
Offers little resistance
And can be admired;

An ear’s wrinkled
Surface, that in its
Interior
Hides, priceless
Beauty.


Modesty

Arabic/Andalusian poem
Original Title: Puder
Written by Habib (ca 1048)


When, on certain situation,
Your are offered a modest
Face to face,
Wine in a carafe,
By a servant with friendly eyes,
Do not hesitate to drink;
There are fuller wines,
Of course, but they will only
Make your feet heavy.

tourist town

Tourist Town.

Pale dust,
fallen leaves,
smeared
paper napkins,
whirl in
the square,
a dance
of decay;
summer season
over
tourists gone
home,
will we meet
next year?

do not look back

Never Look Back

The track I walk on, to the top of the hill
where I can see the sea, is falling into
neglect, overgrown, dry weeds crinkle
underfoot, made smooth and slippery by
the unforgiven August sun.

The sea afar is blue with glitter on, just
as a postcard: “come sail on me,” it says.
I did once, long time ago. I used to stand
on iron deck, look towards shore, dream
of mountains, streams and lakes.

Clouds sail across the sky, sea darkens
gets restless frothy waves, are gored by
dagger sharp cliffs; endless war the sea
will win. Farewell, I shall walk on this
path again, the bygone is another dream.

meaning of life?

Meaning of Life

Man was made
to till the soil
plant seed and harvest,
but also, go to war;
now with much time
on hand
we do culture
think it is important;
paint nature
in unnatural colours,
invent drama,
like life shouldn’t
be enough, and try to
catch the murmur
of the wind with
poetic words,
while we ache
to swing a sword
show courage,
die on
the battle field,
not pale faced
expire
on a white
institutional sheet.

idle moment

The Idle Moment

End of August,
days, still hot
but mornings
are damp and
the kitchen is chilly;
wait for the kettle
to come to a boil
as dogs sit
by the lee wall
that gets the first sun;
Luis starts his
green tractor
I can smell diesel;
a summer is over
I’ve to remember
to buy winter wood.

Up the revolution

Up The Revolution


Rain! So you don’t like it, modern man on holiday,
well it doesn’t wait for you approval, and anyway,
it is good for you hair. “Singing In the Rain”
endless takes, some actors couldn’t get it right and
died of pneumonia, forgotten now, all except for
the lead actor, have forgotten his name, great dancer
though. I do remember that and the dreadful lyrics
of poplar song back then; so bad it make me blush
thinking of it; we were so uncritical and polite then
We can now write songs with great lyric, be critical
of films; only we don’t, we still worship bland actors
and singers of trite songs. The well known students
of 1968, siblings of the elite, had a big street party in
Paris and called it a revolution, they are the ones who
run the show now, just as their parents once did

we, the smart people

We, the Smart People.


I cannot hear them in my valley, their agony,
frankly, I don’t care. They call themselves
Palestinians, mere nomads, complain about
grievances caused by us, we, who came to
the Middle East tore off the romantic veil of
olive and mules in a land of serenity, and created
a modern state. Freedom, what do they know?
Never had any of that before we came, they had
burning bushes, goats, sand and endless time.

We have built many walls to keep them apart
from us, it is what they wanted, live in noise
and filth; so don’t you blame us; but it doesn’t
have to be like this, all they have to do is to say
they accept us and we will supply them with
drinking water, health service and work; they
never had any of this before. Freedom! They do
go on, why should they want freedom from us?
We, are a bright race, why, we even run the USA.

3 tanka

Tanka

Moths play outdoors,
Street light and a summer night,
Not in the wardrobe
Where they are safe and cozy
Eating Uncle Fred’s old suit




Tanka

I sit in the yard
The soft night rests on my lap
String photos of you
On a necklace of memories
And I think of dawn and love



Tanka

The moon cannot fly
It asks of you to be its wings
Imagination;
Not so very difficult,
Recall the buzz of first love.

the jackpot

The Jackpot


I stood where the rainbow landed, close up its light too sharp,
almost vulgar, had to close my eyes. When it vanished
the ground was soft and warm, began digging when a middle
aged man appeared, as from nowhere, thought it was god
because he looked dignified like the pianist in Alfred’s bar;
to be a pianist in bars knowing you are not going to play in
Carnegie Hall you have to look revered to survive. He asked
me what I wanted to do with all that gold. I thought of cars,
long legged blond birds, my own aircraft, a yacht and a loo
with a gold seat; got so bored with my infantile wishes that
I gave God my spade and walked home. Saw him on the TV,
a week ago, on the deck of his enormous boat, surrounded by
giggling birds; dyed his hair and goatee black and - I’m sure –
he, in his bathroom, had a loo seat made gold.

the vanished

The Vanished

I sat in a corner café minding my own business
when a girl of four came over tapped me on my
knee offered me a boiled sweet. Took it but didn’t
eat it in case she wanted it back; told me her age
and name, asked how old I was. Hundred, I said;
she looked blank a digit too big for her to get,
changed it to fifty she wasn’t awed wanted her
sweet back. Sucked on it, felt sorry for me ‘cause
she said I look sad, took the sweet out of her mouth
gave it back Her mum came over, frowned at me
dragged her daughter away and said: “I told you not
to talk to strangers?” Later that same day her parents
left her alone in a hotel room, to go out for drinks,
she vanished, and hasn’t been seen again; her name
was and, who knows? Still is, Madeleine.

3 tanka

Tanka

This is a good day
The world skewed to the right
But Russia is back
Bringing a kind of balance
To our crazy old planet



Tanka

Pathetic NATO
Tried to look hard-hitting
Then, the bear roared
And an old question rose
What the hell is NATO for?



Tanka

The local culture,
All lands have a tedious one,
Has no dark corner
Peoples who insist there are
We send to a hospital.

3 tanka

Tanka

This is a good day
The world skewed to the right
But Russia is back
Bringing a kind of balance
To our crazy old planet



Tanka

Pathetic NATO
Tried to look hard-hitting
Then, the bear roared
And an old question rose
What the hell is NATO for?



Tanka

The local culture,
All lands have a tedious one,
Has no dark corner
Peoples who insist there are
We send to a hospital.

in pastel colour

Outdoor Light.


Under a streetlamp she stood, short skirt
for such a cold day, showing red knickers,
the light had cruelly undressed her face.
A pathetic mask that bore the mark of loss,
yet in her eyes there was still the hope of
finding love that made her a prey for men
who sold her over and over again, and for
less money every time. Her last boyfriend
had promised her they would get engaged
as soon as she had made enough money to
buy rings and go on holiday to Spain;
the thought of that warmed her little heart,
but she was worried too if she didn’t make
any money to night he will be sullen call
her a useless whore and slap her about but
never in her face, was he kind that way.

late afternoon

A Late Afternoon Poem


The Smooth, flat stone I threw, skimmed the lake
seven times before sinking into the lake, where it
will be safe till the lake is drained.

Child of the black berg which was so lovely that
men with bulldozers came…and no more said;
now it is almost just another big hole.

You can call it an eye socket, watery, misty not
unlike the eye of an old troll re-reading a poem he
remembers from his youth.

3 senryu

Senryu

October’s dawn
Sorrowful as a bedroom
Reeking of booze


Senryu

Dark hotel room
Lit up by blinking neon light
Paid sex and silence



Senryu

Echo of Terns’ shrieks
Empty row-boat in a fjord
Spooked is silence

if they could talk

If They Could Talk.

The walls in the bedroom were once creamy
Reflecting the former occupants middle class
pretensions, now they were just winter grey
and sad as only walls can be that have had their
favourite pictures removed and placed on walls
unknown, in a new home in some out of town
housing estate.

Not only the bedroom but every wall, ceiling
and floor of this two story house were bare, it
only housed a ghosts that was adapt at stealing
copy pens, it was standing there by the curtain
less window in the living room (what irony)
contemplating if it should move into the office
block across the road only they didn’t use pens
there anymore.

People wrote words on a screen and sent them
into a void or to people who deleted them before
reading what had been written. Morning now,
the common soul of every plank in the house
and waited for executioners, in overalls, to come
end the old order of things and build a shiny new
city centre, with rings roads, supermarkets and
a grand opera house.

the thing

The Thing

In my home town they were closing down
the old library, going digital, giving away
leather bound book. I parked by the door
got as many beautiful old books as I could
carry, but I had parked in a no parking and
the police had dismantled my car, an officer
guarding the pieces said if I paid the police
would come and reassemble the car,

I agreed, but it began raining, they couldn’t
come before it stopped, staggered back to
the library with my book, but it had shut its
doors for the day. And did it rain, the books,
now a dough of damp leather and wet paper
gave birth to a ugly, slimy thing that tried to
crawl back into the library leaving a trail of
useless words and pompous poetry behind.

the ruled

The Ruled


I big bird appeared on the sky it was hungry and ate
the day, all around us the murky, a mist that swirled
around moist and cold. We feared the worst and asked
how can we live when there is no day nor night?
Awesome silence, we had no screen to look at no one
told us what to do and when, now the churches were
full of people seeking freedom from thoughts.

Bishops and priests grew hopeful, dressed in finery,
this was the time of the clerics, masters now they
made many morally intolerant rules that were hard to
follow. Till a shiny day appeared on the horizon and
the bird disappeared. Scientists rule Ok, vicars are
butt of jokes; yet deep within us there is a doubt
the day eating bird may exist, just bidding its time…

how safe is your child?

How Safe Is Your Child?

Mums and dads have been demonstrating
outside the city’s park, they want the lake
filled in and trees chopped down since
a boy fell from a tree into the lake, broke
a leg and nearly drowned.

There is a chopper overhead taking picture
of the lake, dangerous trees, boulders and
bushes along a tall wall where pedophiles
can lurk, see the evening news; later talks
by experts: “How safe is your child?”

It has now been decided that the lake can
be walled in, branches of tree cut so no
child can reach them, the bushes chopped
down and light installed, no hiding place,
and yes, the boulders rolled into the lake.

Still the mums and dads are not happy,
it’s ok for the kids to climb trees as long as
they are made of rubber and there is foam
carpet under each one, the lake draws ducks,
that draws rats, breadcrumbs and pestilence.

The park was fenced in, off limit to anyone
under twenty one, then it was privatized
restaurants, tennis courts, dance, furtive sex
in the bushes, and wet T. shirt contests, while
children are safely at home watching TV.

The surplus

The Surplus

The bird of bitter frost flew through the air,

hospital windows open, airing night closed

room of human odour. Icy talons through

fragile bodies, two patients died at dawn;

they said it was heart attack. I think it was

lack of love, bird of frost only flies when

the sick are lonely, its senses they are of no

further use. Lament and fill out forms and

tell relatives the usual lies:” the patient had

a peaceful death.” got to a good bar alcohol

reunites soul and body; then fuck your heart

out, tomorrow is another rotten day when

doctors and nurses try not to be drawn into

indifference by the burden of their human

incompetence.

when house ants sleep

When A House Ant Sleeps.

 

Testing, testing a strange dog has entered the village,

our dogs are barking just as my computer asks:

What is this?” Maria has two small dogs, calls asks

me to chase the big dog; Why me? Do I look like hero?

Pick up stones, wave a stick, shout: “bad dog,” and in

Portuguese holler “Vai para casa! ” (Go home!)

The dog, it is big, ignores me I throw a stone and hit,

it yelps, runs off. I cannot sleep, perhaps it has been

abandoned by a cruel owner who thought the dog too

kind to go rabbit hunting. I’m a hero no else dared

confront the monster, I bask in their glory but I’m

a fraud, yet in the morning I strut through the village,

admiring glances from the women by the well; yeah,

it feels nice to be a hero, if the Gaza strip needs me

I’m ready, the people there throw stones at an enemy

armed with rockets and really need a hero like me on

their side.          

Late algarvian summer

Late Algarvian Summer

Leaves on the almond tree are golden/brown,
its fruit is ready to be picked, soon leaves
will wizen and fall off, expose puny braches.

Carob and olive trees green; habitually make
hurtful remarks, in the grove happy murmur
ceases and a melancholy silence settles.

In winters, when the almond tree flowers, it
strews pink flowers about, gladly shares its
beauty with us; forgotten are unkind remarks.

The carob and the olive tree suddenly aware
of their nobly trunks are silent for once, but
in the grove, the happy murmur has resumed.