A Byway
The orange grove was like a forest, trees full
of fruit standing close together I couldn’t gaze
through, look west to see the winter ocean.
Further on I came to an olive grove, more space
amongst trees that looked serious like elderly,
sagacious men contemplating a vanishing future,
while terracotta wooly sheep grazed on fresh
green grass; and I could see a sliver of the sea,
glittering as a pearl-necklace thrown away by
an intemperate wife of a Russian oligarch.
Timeless she is teasing me with her shimmer,
I thought of racing down to the coast join a ship
and sense the heave of the seas under my feet
once more Ah, but not today, if ever.
The sheep stopped grazing looked my way,
chewed slowly, it was getting colder and they
had flecks of sunlight in their eyes.
Monday, November 17, 2008
wishes and reality
Wishes and Reality
Let me dance to this Latin rhythm till my feet
are tired and I’m wonderfully beat, and I sail
on a cloud filled with youthful dreams, say,
brilliantly winning a medal for something or
other. It doesn’t matter what, as long as it is
of gold and the king of Siam pins it on my
chest, or on the lapel of my suit, (less painful
that way) with people running in the street
stuffing confetti into cannons and jubilantly
calling my name. When horses on the pampas
of Argentina, the Texas panhandle too, will
neigh, and fill the landscape with an aroma
of clover and elegant beauty. If not a cup, of
cocoa before bed will do nicely…thank you.
Let me dance to this Latin rhythm till my feet
are tired and I’m wonderfully beat, and I sail
on a cloud filled with youthful dreams, say,
brilliantly winning a medal for something or
other. It doesn’t matter what, as long as it is
of gold and the king of Siam pins it on my
chest, or on the lapel of my suit, (less painful
that way) with people running in the street
stuffing confetti into cannons and jubilantly
calling my name. When horses on the pampas
of Argentina, the Texas panhandle too, will
neigh, and fill the landscape with an aroma
of clover and elegant beauty. If not a cup, of
cocoa before bed will do nicely…thank you.
friday night blues
Friday Night Blues.
The stab of a stiletto pierces my heart,
stop now remember to walk slowly,
do not dance to the music of your mind
it fools you to think that the fat man
you see in the shop window aren’t you,
but an old dupe bad on his feet.
Quick step and tango, no big deal I do
dance at home when alone, close my
eyes and sway, yeah, baby I’ve got
rhythm, in the night when they have all
gone to bed; a bottle of wine and dreams,
you wouldn’t know I was old.
The stab of a stiletto pierces my heart,
stop now remember to walk slowly,
do not dance to the music of your mind
it fools you to think that the fat man
you see in the shop window aren’t you,
but an old dupe bad on his feet.
Quick step and tango, no big deal I do
dance at home when alone, close my
eyes and sway, yeah, baby I’ve got
rhythm, in the night when they have all
gone to bed; a bottle of wine and dreams,
you wouldn’t know I was old.
a letter partly read
A Letter Partly Read
“We thank you for sending your work to us.”
This is a beautiful line for any writers to
hear, I read this line but not its continuations
as I was eating lunch at the time, it is of no
interest what I was eating in our slim obsessed
time but, wasn’t burger and chips or a carrot,
and yes I did have a glass of red wine.
I folded the letter together and put it in my
breast pocket, from where it murmured about
yet another failure, I had another glass and
didn’t hear. Wait for some good news so
I can dismiss the second line of the letter
and don’t feel hurt, it may a long wait, perhaps
years, but as a poet I can wait forever.
“We thank you for sending your work to us.”
This is a beautiful line for any writers to
hear, I read this line but not its continuations
as I was eating lunch at the time, it is of no
interest what I was eating in our slim obsessed
time but, wasn’t burger and chips or a carrot,
and yes I did have a glass of red wine.
I folded the letter together and put it in my
breast pocket, from where it murmured about
yet another failure, I had another glass and
didn’t hear. Wait for some good news so
I can dismiss the second line of the letter
and don’t feel hurt, it may a long wait, perhaps
years, but as a poet I can wait forever.
haiku
Haiku
Algarvian rain
Falls mainly in opaque nights
When moggy kills mice
Haiku
On cold winter days
When sky is icy sapphire
Sun’s a jaded eye
Haiku
November still day
Peaceful chimney smoke shimmer
Fox spoors on new snow
Algarvian rain
Falls mainly in opaque nights
When moggy kills mice
Haiku
On cold winter days
When sky is icy sapphire
Sun’s a jaded eye
Haiku
November still day
Peaceful chimney smoke shimmer
Fox spoors on new snow
Thursday, November 13, 2008
not an idle moment
Not an Idle Moment
A fly sits on top of the computer screen
cleaning its face when not watching me,
incredible it takes lift flies and lands on
the tip of my nose, close up it has
enormous eyes, so big I can see myself.
I hit it, but miss now I have nosebleed,
it trickles down to my lips, tastes salty,
drips on my green shirt I’m so proud of.
I go to the bathroom, I’m a boxer, who
has won the match in round six, so what’s
a nosebleed? Take shirt off soaks it in
cold water, put a clean one on, it needs to
be ironed, so who cares a dank day when
even windows cry and the old roof leeks?
The dipterous sits on top of the screen
eyeing me contemptuously, pretend I’ve
forgotten something get up, in the kitchen
cupboard I find insecticide, storm in, spray
my room, the fly curls up and dies. Blank
screen I have forgotten what I was going
to write about.
A fly sits on top of the computer screen
cleaning its face when not watching me,
incredible it takes lift flies and lands on
the tip of my nose, close up it has
enormous eyes, so big I can see myself.
I hit it, but miss now I have nosebleed,
it trickles down to my lips, tastes salty,
drips on my green shirt I’m so proud of.
I go to the bathroom, I’m a boxer, who
has won the match in round six, so what’s
a nosebleed? Take shirt off soaks it in
cold water, put a clean one on, it needs to
be ironed, so who cares a dank day when
even windows cry and the old roof leeks?
The dipterous sits on top of the screen
eyeing me contemptuously, pretend I’ve
forgotten something get up, in the kitchen
cupboard I find insecticide, storm in, spray
my room, the fly curls up and dies. Blank
screen I have forgotten what I was going
to write about.
the hunter
The Hunter
The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.
Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.
Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.
I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.
The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.
Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.
Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.
I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
great war
The Great World War.
It is long ago, when I saw this painting, on
the wall in a house that had belonged to
man just dead, long trenches- in a flat
landscape- killed by shells, leaf- less trees
denuded and defiled by an orgy of bullets.
The soldiers in the trenches wore long blue
coats, the painting too had a bluish shine
telling us of a world where the sun refused
to come and be a part of this horror show.
No heroes here, just soldiers waiting to die
I don’t know if the painting was a work of
art, I had wanted to take it home, but a child
in an adults’ world has no right, the picture
was filthy and had a crude frame, they said;
it was thrown on the skip and forgotten.
It is long ago, when I saw this painting, on
the wall in a house that had belonged to
man just dead, long trenches- in a flat
landscape- killed by shells, leaf- less trees
denuded and defiled by an orgy of bullets.
The soldiers in the trenches wore long blue
coats, the painting too had a bluish shine
telling us of a world where the sun refused
to come and be a part of this horror show.
No heroes here, just soldiers waiting to die
I don’t know if the painting was a work of
art, I had wanted to take it home, but a child
in an adults’ world has no right, the picture
was filthy and had a crude frame, they said;
it was thrown on the skip and forgotten.
an ordinary painting
An Ordinary Painting
A bland painting on our wall, a tied up rowing boat,
a boat house, fjord salt sea that didn’t look inviting,
and grass that looked artificial, a cold sun and a hazy
in two boys in the row boat and a girl with tanned legs
sat on a stone, slum children happy to be on holiday.
The sun looked warmer now and the haze had gone
and the sea was teaming with marine life. Pleased
I decided to add more things next day, but when new
day came and I looked at the painting again it was as
empty as before I began adding life to it.
But wait, the boat had sunk and just below the surface
of the shimmering sea, the boys floated- eyes lifeless
and open- inside the boat house I could just make out
the girl hanging from a beam. The painting exuded
coldness, the sea whitened to ice so intense that it
cracked and the whole picture fell into a deep abyss.
A piece of cardboard, enclosed by a gilded frame,
on its empty surface I painted galloping white horses,
flaring nostrils and flying mane, a standard painting
of the type decorating the walls of homes, and it was
still there next day and the days thereafter.
A bland painting on our wall, a tied up rowing boat,
a boat house, fjord salt sea that didn’t look inviting,
and grass that looked artificial, a cold sun and a hazy
in two boys in the row boat and a girl with tanned legs
sat on a stone, slum children happy to be on holiday.
The sun looked warmer now and the haze had gone
and the sea was teaming with marine life. Pleased
I decided to add more things next day, but when new
day came and I looked at the painting again it was as
empty as before I began adding life to it.
But wait, the boat had sunk and just below the surface
of the shimmering sea, the boys floated- eyes lifeless
and open- inside the boat house I could just make out
the girl hanging from a beam. The painting exuded
coldness, the sea whitened to ice so intense that it
cracked and the whole picture fell into a deep abyss.
A piece of cardboard, enclosed by a gilded frame,
on its empty surface I painted galloping white horses,
flaring nostrils and flying mane, a standard painting
of the type decorating the walls of homes, and it was
still there next day and the days thereafter.
hauku
Haiku
Torn old diary
Thrown hotly into the bin
Tells of broken love
The old diary
Modest amongst bigger books
Keeps my many dreams
Brown old diary
Coldly exposes my sappiness
Leaves me mortified
Torn old diary
Thrown hotly into the bin
Tells of broken love
The old diary
Modest amongst bigger books
Keeps my many dreams
Brown old diary
Coldly exposes my sappiness
Leaves me mortified
past heroics
Past Heroics
They are wheeling out old singers on the TV.,
in their seventies and famous around the time
Paris had a street party called 1968. Those
who partook are now conservative men who
smile when remind of their folly; but that’s
life. It is scary to see how smart and young
they looked and now; face- lifts and fake hair
cannot hide the march of time.
Once I sang their songs, dressed like them,
thought I was up to date. I know looking at
their old faces that I too am old and a relic
on the shores of modernity. That’s way I
do not tell stories of old days, people listen
with a patronizing smile waits for me to go
away, the past is only of interest to the old
and eccentric academics
They are wheeling out old singers on the TV.,
in their seventies and famous around the time
Paris had a street party called 1968. Those
who partook are now conservative men who
smile when remind of their folly; but that’s
life. It is scary to see how smart and young
they looked and now; face- lifts and fake hair
cannot hide the march of time.
Once I sang their songs, dressed like them,
thought I was up to date. I know looking at
their old faces that I too am old and a relic
on the shores of modernity. That’s way I
do not tell stories of old days, people listen
with a patronizing smile waits for me to go
away, the past is only of interest to the old
and eccentric academics
the dance of life
The Dance of Life
When a child my freedom
Was restricted by adults
In a world of fear;
As an adult my freedom was
Restricted by the need to
Make a living;
Now as old, my freedom
Is restricted by bad health
And a small pension
Death promises freedom,
But since it lacks
Consciousness it is illusory
When a child my freedom
Was restricted by adults
In a world of fear;
As an adult my freedom was
Restricted by the need to
Make a living;
Now as old, my freedom
Is restricted by bad health
And a small pension
Death promises freedom,
But since it lacks
Consciousness it is illusory
The flowering Shrub
The Flowering Shrub
The rhododendron, planted years ago
is now leaning over weighing down
the shed, it looks healthy and lovely,
knocks on the kitchen window I keep
closed or it will enter strangle me,
the cooker and the fridge
Crimson as fluid blood, its flowers,
when it rains ruby drops drip as war
wounds on battle ground, and people
come from a far just to take pictures;
yet no birds sits on its branches and
cats keep disappearing;
Killed by the red foxes in the woods?
I have suspicions, cannot voice them
unless people think I’m mad. Bought
a chain-saw, and when no one looks,
the good-looking but murderous killer
will be aromatic winter wood.
The rhododendron, planted years ago
is now leaning over weighing down
the shed, it looks healthy and lovely,
knocks on the kitchen window I keep
closed or it will enter strangle me,
the cooker and the fridge
Crimson as fluid blood, its flowers,
when it rains ruby drops drip as war
wounds on battle ground, and people
come from a far just to take pictures;
yet no birds sits on its branches and
cats keep disappearing;
Killed by the red foxes in the woods?
I have suspicions, cannot voice them
unless people think I’m mad. Bought
a chain-saw, and when no one looks,
the good-looking but murderous killer
will be aromatic winter wood.
Friday, November 07, 2008
the lost president
The Lost President
Poor George, the president, deserted by foe and
friends, roaming the corridor of his big white
house like a ghost of yesterday. Cry he does and
says to his wife: Why, have they forsaken me?
she cradles him in her arms and says: “there, there
George don’t mind them, you kept the braying
enemy away for eight years, and in time a street
will bear your name, you can be sure of that”
Reassured George get on his bike and cycles from
eight to nine, but since the morning news doesn’t
mention his name and there is talk of a Moslem
called Obama he frets again, till a flunky tells him
he is still the president.
Poor George, the president, deserted by foe and
friends, roaming the corridor of his big white
house like a ghost of yesterday. Cry he does and
says to his wife: Why, have they forsaken me?
she cradles him in her arms and says: “there, there
George don’t mind them, you kept the braying
enemy away for eight years, and in time a street
will bear your name, you can be sure of that”
Reassured George get on his bike and cycles from
eight to nine, but since the morning news doesn’t
mention his name and there is talk of a Moslem
called Obama he frets again, till a flunky tells him
he is still the president.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
the rat catcher
The Rat Catcher
When summer heat has lulled Faro into a stupor,
rats that live in its old sewers come up to enjoy
the sea breeze, but for the hiss, they are as a low
flying heat cloud seeping towards the dock, while
eating half consumed hamburgers and chips.
They are so fleeting and shimmering that if you
not especially look for them they are not there,
except for the odour of sewers that lazily drifts
in the air, before dawn when the street cleaning
wagon comes rumbling along they retreat.
To their dens while listening for my steps they
know that I can hear them they also know that
I’m aware of their plan to occupy the town by
attacking sleeping people eating their eyes and
let them helpless stumble into the sea.
I know all this as I walk around in the night
keeping vigil, I’m the inhabitants, saviour,
they shrug at my warnings think I’m mad, that
makes rats laugh in their bunkers, yet they
shake with fear when hearing my Harvey walk.
When summer heat has lulled Faro into a stupor,
rats that live in its old sewers come up to enjoy
the sea breeze, but for the hiss, they are as a low
flying heat cloud seeping towards the dock, while
eating half consumed hamburgers and chips.
They are so fleeting and shimmering that if you
not especially look for them they are not there,
except for the odour of sewers that lazily drifts
in the air, before dawn when the street cleaning
wagon comes rumbling along they retreat.
To their dens while listening for my steps they
know that I can hear them they also know that
I’m aware of their plan to occupy the town by
attacking sleeping people eating their eyes and
let them helpless stumble into the sea.
I know all this as I walk around in the night
keeping vigil, I’m the inhabitants, saviour,
they shrug at my warnings think I’m mad, that
makes rats laugh in their bunkers, yet they
shake with fear when hearing my Harvey walk.
the tarn of life
The Tarn of Life.
There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.
I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.
In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.
It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.
There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.
I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.
In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.
It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.
the tarn of life
The Tarn of Life.
There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.
I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.
In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.
It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.
There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.
I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.
In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.
It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
a street in Paris
A Street in Paris
September morning rue Amsterdam, Paris,
on top of the street a small park, with trees
that has falling auburn leaves, Romanians
sleep in the park, they have nowhere else
to go, they look tidy and keep small dogs;
it’s nice to have a dog to stroke in a callous
world. The city is waking up, people haste
to gar St. Salazar, to take the tube to their
place of work, and there is nothing chic
about Parisian women early in the morning.
Ambling along I came to a sign that read:
gar de Stalin, people who live around there
now, mostly first generation Arabs, have no
idea who Stalin was
There are many Arabs about to day, in
a way, this morning has Algerian feel to it
as the sun warms there is a distinct smell
of African tobacco in the air; I’m going to
a posh wedding, on a barge sailing down
the Seine, it’s a very French affair so there
will not be many semitics around, unless
they are waiters. Lunch time is democratic,
full are hamburger joints and small cafes
selling baguette with cheese, while posh
restaurants are as empty as old churches.
It’s a pity really Paris is not as French as
I had imagined it to be; poor Edith Piaf
has been dead for a long time.
September morning rue Amsterdam, Paris,
on top of the street a small park, with trees
that has falling auburn leaves, Romanians
sleep in the park, they have nowhere else
to go, they look tidy and keep small dogs;
it’s nice to have a dog to stroke in a callous
world. The city is waking up, people haste
to gar St. Salazar, to take the tube to their
place of work, and there is nothing chic
about Parisian women early in the morning.
Ambling along I came to a sign that read:
gar de Stalin, people who live around there
now, mostly first generation Arabs, have no
idea who Stalin was
There are many Arabs about to day, in
a way, this morning has Algerian feel to it
as the sun warms there is a distinct smell
of African tobacco in the air; I’m going to
a posh wedding, on a barge sailing down
the Seine, it’s a very French affair so there
will not be many semitics around, unless
they are waiters. Lunch time is democratic,
full are hamburger joints and small cafes
selling baguette with cheese, while posh
restaurants are as empty as old churches.
It’s a pity really Paris is not as French as
I had imagined it to be; poor Edith Piaf
has been dead for a long time.
Monday, November 03, 2008
A quiet word
A Quiet Word
Poetry ought to be of beauty love and summers,
I listen under my lemon it bears such a yellow
fruit, but I hear nothing but cannons thunder and
voices that speaks of revenge, and the voices of
those who demand a home-land their own;
I do understand, but do they have to kill their
neighbour to achieve their goal? To my distress
I must admit that without fighting for your right,
defending your home, no one will give it to you
freely. So Palestinians, sullen Greenlanders and
other homeless people, diplomacy will get you
nowhere. I need not, tell you what to do, but
remember what the use of violence is for freedom
and not for suppression of the truth.
Poetry ought to be of beauty love and summers,
I listen under my lemon it bears such a yellow
fruit, but I hear nothing but cannons thunder and
voices that speaks of revenge, and the voices of
those who demand a home-land their own;
I do understand, but do they have to kill their
neighbour to achieve their goal? To my distress
I must admit that without fighting for your right,
defending your home, no one will give it to you
freely. So Palestinians, sullen Greenlanders and
other homeless people, diplomacy will get you
nowhere. I need not, tell you what to do, but
remember what the use of violence is for freedom
and not for suppression of the truth.
the silent song
The Silent Songs
Grave diggers now have not horny hands
with soil under nails, they have cute little
mechanical diggers that nimbly moves
between head stones. Flowers on a fresh
mound lose their colour, the funeral was
yesterday, death moves fast there are
other holes to be filled with soil and
fertilized with tears, and green grass will
grow. My generation loses its shine
the music fades and uncomplaining is
the silence, I wish they wouldn’t leave
so oddly like they have never existed,
after all they used to be my friends and
I have heard them sing their poetry.
Grave diggers now have not horny hands
with soil under nails, they have cute little
mechanical diggers that nimbly moves
between head stones. Flowers on a fresh
mound lose their colour, the funeral was
yesterday, death moves fast there are
other holes to be filled with soil and
fertilized with tears, and green grass will
grow. My generation loses its shine
the music fades and uncomplaining is
the silence, I wish they wouldn’t leave
so oddly like they have never existed,
after all they used to be my friends and
I have heard them sing their poetry.
mirror image
The Mirror Image
I knew as soon as he came into the supermarket
That he was famous, it take long training to walk
That nonchalant, also the way people looked and
Whispered was telling. I called it a Harvey walk
And had practiced it for years, just in case fame
And the crowd’s esteem should smile to me.
Alas- a vain smile- I was a waste of time, all this
Striding past places where famous movie people
Hung out; sometimes I even walked into one of
Those restaurant and had an expensive cup of tea
Trying to look famous, but you can’t fool a trained
Waiter…and now it is too late.
I bought a loaf and four tomato and asked who
The famous one was, they looked at me and laughed.
I knew as soon as he came into the supermarket
That he was famous, it take long training to walk
That nonchalant, also the way people looked and
Whispered was telling. I called it a Harvey walk
And had practiced it for years, just in case fame
And the crowd’s esteem should smile to me.
Alas- a vain smile- I was a waste of time, all this
Striding past places where famous movie people
Hung out; sometimes I even walked into one of
Those restaurant and had an expensive cup of tea
Trying to look famous, but you can’t fool a trained
Waiter…and now it is too late.
I bought a loaf and four tomato and asked who
The famous one was, they looked at me and laughed.
the egg
The Egg.
A tray of eggs, I was making an omelet,
empty shells, no embryos today, called
the dog it was at the garden, had dug itself,
into a hole, there was nothing I could do.
Snow began falling didn’t stop till landscape
was eternally white; a red fox looked cute
but didn’t see the hare till it stirred, drops
of ruby shone warmly on glittering crystals.
Thawing snow on the Russian steppe, there
had been a battle, arms pointing up, like
twigs of dead trees, in need to tell an untold
story of war and eternal suffering.
Under a lone tree, shot many times but still
standing, a red fox sat sniffing the air for
hares, a single shot rolled over landscape
springtime now and man was back in action.
A tray of eggs, I was making an omelet,
empty shells, no embryos today, called
the dog it was at the garden, had dug itself,
into a hole, there was nothing I could do.
Snow began falling didn’t stop till landscape
was eternally white; a red fox looked cute
but didn’t see the hare till it stirred, drops
of ruby shone warmly on glittering crystals.
Thawing snow on the Russian steppe, there
had been a battle, arms pointing up, like
twigs of dead trees, in need to tell an untold
story of war and eternal suffering.
Under a lone tree, shot many times but still
standing, a red fox sat sniffing the air for
hares, a single shot rolled over landscape
springtime now and man was back in action.
Friday, October 31, 2008
a cigarette
A Cigarette
Dawn, yes and the mist, what else do you
expect on lake Martin early and summer?
Swamp cypress dripping with Spanish moss.
I have stopped rowing, water swirling around
Oar blades, the silence is absolute I dare not
Inhale, a bird shrieks, the lake shudders
An evil thought has entered Paradise, I hear
The faint noise of outboard motors,
The moment of ethereal stillness has gone,
I lit a cigarette inhale deeply, exhale and blow
Rings a pure delight into morning air.
Dawn, yes and the mist, what else do you
expect on lake Martin early and summer?
Swamp cypress dripping with Spanish moss.
I have stopped rowing, water swirling around
Oar blades, the silence is absolute I dare not
Inhale, a bird shrieks, the lake shudders
An evil thought has entered Paradise, I hear
The faint noise of outboard motors,
The moment of ethereal stillness has gone,
I lit a cigarette inhale deeply, exhale and blow
Rings a pure delight into morning air.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
haiku
Haiku
Lucid is the sky
Cool and translucent is day
Wonderful is fall
Haiku
Unambiguous
Is the cold northerly wind
The master of frost
Haiku
It was a mistake
The sun shone and it was warm Haiku
Morning’s snow crystals
Downed on lawns too early
Sun is still in charge.
Haiku
Aquatic time
Relentless rain harshly fall
Time to read a book.
Haiku
Rain on the mountain
River runs with fiercely rage
To meet its maker.
Indian summer
Lucid is the sky
Cool and translucent is day
Wonderful is fall
Haiku
Unambiguous
Is the cold northerly wind
The master of frost
Haiku
It was a mistake
The sun shone and it was warm Haiku
Morning’s snow crystals
Downed on lawns too early
Sun is still in charge.
Haiku
Aquatic time
Relentless rain harshly fall
Time to read a book.
Haiku
Rain on the mountain
River runs with fiercely rage
To meet its maker.
Indian summer
the girl who loved me
The Girl Who Loved Me.
At a house that posed as a posh bar I saw her,
very tall, thin and gangling she smiled shyly
and the young men in the throng thought her
weird, so I befriended her, she was grateful;
yes, for I too know how it is to be neglected.
Afterward we went out for meal she insisted
I must meet her parents, who were proud of
her. And life was sweet for a few days till
I had to leave, she cried, I promised to write
and callously didn’t.
When the moon shone on the Caribbean Sea
and I stood on a hot iron deck alone I regretted
my self-serving empathy, playing on other
people’s emotion, just to tie another knot on
the hangman’s noose .
At a house that posed as a posh bar I saw her,
very tall, thin and gangling she smiled shyly
and the young men in the throng thought her
weird, so I befriended her, she was grateful;
yes, for I too know how it is to be neglected.
Afterward we went out for meal she insisted
I must meet her parents, who were proud of
her. And life was sweet for a few days till
I had to leave, she cried, I promised to write
and callously didn’t.
When the moon shone on the Caribbean Sea
and I stood on a hot iron deck alone I regretted
my self-serving empathy, playing on other
people’s emotion, just to tie another knot on
the hangman’s noose .
The US Election
The US Election
Behind Obama, president almost elect, there is
Another black man, his body, who sharpens his
pencil and lick stamps. There is a whisper that
the body might be a Moslem, alas, he is a true
blue blooded American black born in a ghetto
and we are now seeing the roots of thing, as we
all started from a humble beginning- those who
didn’t have to fake one- and it’s quite right too.
Sarah too came from unassuming background,
she bravely rose above it and there isn’t a trace
of modesty in her throbbing, attractive veins.
So all is well then? We have a president, who
will rule the world kindly, make the bald eagle
a symbol of respect again. There aren’t many
eagles left in the wild, the zoo bred ones do not
know how to soar, we must me careful so this bird
doesn’t end up like the Tasmanian tiger
Behind Obama, president almost elect, there is
Another black man, his body, who sharpens his
pencil and lick stamps. There is a whisper that
the body might be a Moslem, alas, he is a true
blue blooded American black born in a ghetto
and we are now seeing the roots of thing, as we
all started from a humble beginning- those who
didn’t have to fake one- and it’s quite right too.
Sarah too came from unassuming background,
she bravely rose above it and there isn’t a trace
of modesty in her throbbing, attractive veins.
So all is well then? We have a president, who
will rule the world kindly, make the bald eagle
a symbol of respect again. There aren’t many
eagles left in the wild, the zoo bred ones do not
know how to soar, we must me careful so this bird
doesn’t end up like the Tasmanian tiger
Nazism and the Belgian chef
Nazism and the Belgian Chef
In Belgium, I read, a TV chef has been fired and
The program axed. He cooked dishes famous people
through history liked. All went well, till he cooked
Herr. Hitler’s favourite dish, fried trout with sour
cream. People protested, this was to humanize Hitler
and our chef was fired for having bad taste (pun?)
It is quite naïve to believe that by not mentioning
Hitler, the towering inferno of the twentieth century,
they can somehow wish him away by making him
into a monster without human feelings and emotions.
Alas, he was so very human and real, there are many
as him walking around and giving half the chance
will behave just as Herr. Hitler did.
In Belgium, I read, a TV chef has been fired and
The program axed. He cooked dishes famous people
through history liked. All went well, till he cooked
Herr. Hitler’s favourite dish, fried trout with sour
cream. People protested, this was to humanize Hitler
and our chef was fired for having bad taste (pun?)
It is quite naïve to believe that by not mentioning
Hitler, the towering inferno of the twentieth century,
they can somehow wish him away by making him
into a monster without human feelings and emotions.
Alas, he was so very human and real, there are many
as him walking around and giving half the chance
will behave just as Herr. Hitler did.
Monday, October 27, 2008
the notion
The Notion
A thought, a beautiful bird, sat on a tree
tried to grab it, but it flew away and was
liquefied, now I can’t even remember its
colour.
The thought is a river, as I put my hands
into it to stop its flow, it turns into a useless
seam of gold.
Gold diggers came, rich now they will
be interviewed, say weighty thing to
newspapers, we will nod in accord, surely
they must sages, as surely as I must find
another stream
I wait for a new thought to drift along,
without great fanfare, one that will change
itself into a beautiful bird that, in time,
will transform into a poem
A thought, a beautiful bird, sat on a tree
tried to grab it, but it flew away and was
liquefied, now I can’t even remember its
colour.
The thought is a river, as I put my hands
into it to stop its flow, it turns into a useless
seam of gold.
Gold diggers came, rich now they will
be interviewed, say weighty thing to
newspapers, we will nod in accord, surely
they must sages, as surely as I must find
another stream
I wait for a new thought to drift along,
without great fanfare, one that will change
itself into a beautiful bird that, in time,
will transform into a poem
heat
Heat.
Summer light fades.
long shadows
weave a carpet across
the scenery,
meet and unite,
only on slopes
skeletal light
disappears;
an August day is over,
but heat lingers
domineering and violent
waits to be ignited.
Raised voices spilling
over and into the street.
Towards dawn
a slight breeze stirs,
sooths and cools brows;
for a moment bliss,
until a new August
day begins.
Summer light fades.
long shadows
weave a carpet across
the scenery,
meet and unite,
only on slopes
skeletal light
disappears;
an August day is over,
but heat lingers
domineering and violent
waits to be ignited.
Raised voices spilling
over and into the street.
Towards dawn
a slight breeze stirs,
sooths and cools brows;
for a moment bliss,
until a new August
day begins.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
birthday greetings
Birthday Greeting
The darkness gives way for light, joins
Up quickly behind me, I drive home,
When morning breaks I’ll be seventy.
I think of a black, shiny coffin; silver
Handles and flowers too, my grief is
Immense nothing much to celebrate
I sail close to shore carful now under-
Water reefs, seek shelter from old age
While contemplating my sunset.
The darkness gives way for light, joins
Up quickly behind me, I drive home,
When morning breaks I’ll be seventy.
I think of a black, shiny coffin; silver
Handles and flowers too, my grief is
Immense nothing much to celebrate
I sail close to shore carful now under-
Water reefs, seek shelter from old age
While contemplating my sunset.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
flag days
Flag Days
In the village people are not keen of waving their
national flag about (Portuguese) it’s regarded as
rude boasting. An American, who once lived here,
hoisted the Stars & Stripes every morning and, at
times, tied yellow ribbons on almond trees.
Politely we didn’t mention this banner madness it
was as it never happen; then he suddenly died no
one took the flag down till it was in tatters and
blew off in a winter storm; as for yellow ribbons
the almond tree bears beautiful flowers in spring.
In the village people are not keen of waving their
national flag about (Portuguese) it’s regarded as
rude boasting. An American, who once lived here,
hoisted the Stars & Stripes every morning and, at
times, tied yellow ribbons on almond trees.
Politely we didn’t mention this banner madness it
was as it never happen; then he suddenly died no
one took the flag down till it was in tatters and
blew off in a winter storm; as for yellow ribbons
the almond tree bears beautiful flowers in spring.
Monday, October 20, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
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.
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
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.
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?”
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?”
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
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,
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.
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.
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
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
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
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
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.”
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, October 03, 2008
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.
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
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
Thursday, October 02, 2008
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
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
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.
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
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
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
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
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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
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
I tell my moggy that sits by the door and wants to go out
hunting in the night, that cats can only be taken out when
on a lead, because they kill sparrows and other birds; the world
is falling apart, banks are closing and the rich has to sell
their second yacht, while my terrace is full of bird droppings,
The cat is not doing its job;
am I supposed to clean up after them, fat birds feeding only
on rose petals and an ineffective cat that can’t keep order.
I’ve to get another cat one that isn’t tainted by bird calls and
not addicted by seed.
We have to change the world friendship only softens
the guardians who think they should eat from a golden troth
while we are served mud cakes from a plastic sack
And as I watch Tony Blair speak about this crises looking as
innocent as a house cat, it dawns on me that we really have to
cut off the balls of all male cats so they can’t go around
being paid for spreading obnoxious scent all over the place
Monday, September 29, 2008
the storm
A Tempestade (The Storm)
By Ibn Suhayd 992-1034
In darkness
Each flower opens its mouth
And drink from the teats of
Fertile rain
Loaded with water
Armies of black clouds
Majestically
Marches
With golden swords of lightning
By Ibn Suhayd 992-1034
In darkness
Each flower opens its mouth
And drink from the teats of
Fertile rain
Loaded with water
Armies of black clouds
Majestically
Marches
With golden swords of lightning
animal concern
Animal Concern
I ought to protest for all, the world, they are killing
Bulls for fun in Spain. Elegant, but murderous men
with handkerchiefs folded up their crotch to give
illusion of big balls struts about with slim swords
and capes killing the stupid beast when it is tired of
a game it doesn’t understand.
When I think of the Roma children who drowned on
a beach in Italy and lay there for ours under bright
towels, while bathers, unconcerned went about their
business, when I think of these unlawful wars and
a bigger one that will engulf us all, then I must admit
that I don’t give a shit about Spanish bulls
I ought to protest for all, the world, they are killing
Bulls for fun in Spain. Elegant, but murderous men
with handkerchiefs folded up their crotch to give
illusion of big balls struts about with slim swords
and capes killing the stupid beast when it is tired of
a game it doesn’t understand.
When I think of the Roma children who drowned on
a beach in Italy and lay there for ours under bright
towels, while bathers, unconcerned went about their
business, when I think of these unlawful wars and
a bigger one that will engulf us all, then I must admit
that I don’t give a shit about Spanish bulls
addiction
Addiction
Rain has abated
A man under an awing
Counts falling raindrops
He has little else to do
He stopped smoking last night
Fiddles with a lighter
Clicks it on and off forever
Giggles to himself
Kicks in a sweetshop window
Grabs a handful of “all sorts”
Rain has abated
A man under an awing
Counts falling raindrops
He has little else to do
He stopped smoking last night
Fiddles with a lighter
Clicks it on and off forever
Giggles to himself
Kicks in a sweetshop window
Grabs a handful of “all sorts”
no comment
No Comment
So here we sit shielding behind Sunday
and unspoken boredom leafing through
newspapers that predict the fall of
the society as we know it, without Wall
Street, the darkness beckons.
Crisis, we can’t all have a home, whom to
blame, if this time, not the Jews the Persians
can come in handy. Wars are ritual
bloodletting 30-40 million dead and nature
will restore it self
The ice caps will refreeze a clear distinction
between the seasons, above all, Wall Street
will bloom again, politicians will extol our
capitalism, and we will be told not to envious
of those who are filthy rich.
So here we sit shielding behind Sunday
and unspoken boredom leafing through
newspapers that predict the fall of
the society as we know it, without Wall
Street, the darkness beckons.
Crisis, we can’t all have a home, whom to
blame, if this time, not the Jews the Persians
can come in handy. Wars are ritual
bloodletting 30-40 million dead and nature
will restore it self
The ice caps will refreeze a clear distinction
between the seasons, above all, Wall Street
will bloom again, politicians will extol our
capitalism, and we will be told not to envious
of those who are filthy rich.
autumnal sunday
Autumnal Sunday
Rain, it is October the month of melancholy
and you know that the blue sky and sun of
yesterday was just another foolish illusion
the cock didn’t crow this morning and dogs
ears didn’t move when a stranger’s voice
echoed in narrow streets, they knew it was
the voice of doom;
the harvester had arrived in coming month
the old would succumb to the damp breath
of death; not too many tears shed, faces in
a black frame, yes, that’s the way it is we
understand death if not our own. Dogs need
not be told, they snooze sure they are own
their own immortality
Rain, it is October the month of melancholy
and you know that the blue sky and sun of
yesterday was just another foolish illusion
the cock didn’t crow this morning and dogs
ears didn’t move when a stranger’s voice
echoed in narrow streets, they knew it was
the voice of doom;
the harvester had arrived in coming month
the old would succumb to the damp breath
of death; not too many tears shed, faces in
a black frame, yes, that’s the way it is we
understand death if not our own. Dogs need
not be told, they snooze sure they are own
their own immortality
alitre of wine
A litre of wine
The wine in the glass is full the red liquid arches the slightest
movement and it will spill over and run down the stem like
a bleeding stomach wound trickling down a petrified leg.
I bent down and inhaled the wine no spillage and I wondered
why it is so many people, in fact more and more drink beer
that is no longer a natural brew is it because we are no longer
a part of nature and seek and feel more at ease with man made
products and we will soon have a diet that fits with the work
we are doing, say if you want a double cheeseburger with fries
you first have to work shuffling coal for twelve hours,
but if you only want to sit writing a simple poem about
the country side low fat yogurt for you; if you have written
the poem under the influence of a steak you will be censured,
made to walk in the park and tell everyone you’re a crock of
empty of gold empty of anything a modern society such as
networking banalities and get people to buy what they don’t
need; men get medals and titles for doing that. So what do
I care, but it annoys me that I end up buying a soap which
name I have seen on the television and smell like everybody
else, yeah…isn’t that just nice?
The wine in the glass is full the red liquid arches the slightest
movement and it will spill over and run down the stem like
a bleeding stomach wound trickling down a petrified leg.
I bent down and inhaled the wine no spillage and I wondered
why it is so many people, in fact more and more drink beer
that is no longer a natural brew is it because we are no longer
a part of nature and seek and feel more at ease with man made
products and we will soon have a diet that fits with the work
we are doing, say if you want a double cheeseburger with fries
you first have to work shuffling coal for twelve hours,
but if you only want to sit writing a simple poem about
the country side low fat yogurt for you; if you have written
the poem under the influence of a steak you will be censured,
made to walk in the park and tell everyone you’re a crock of
empty of gold empty of anything a modern society such as
networking banalities and get people to buy what they don’t
need; men get medals and titles for doing that. So what do
I care, but it annoys me that I end up buying a soap which
name I have seen on the television and smell like everybody
else, yeah…isn’t that just nice?
Livorno Mon amour
Livorno Mon Amour
Livorno this dreary harbour port, not Rome and now in
winter a ghost town, every window shuttered telling not
of life inside. Into the bar came a young woman, long legs
like a colt, she was frozen warmed her hand and fanny by
the fire. I thought she looked like the American I had once
seen the shadow of in Trieste, I offered her a drink, she
had a coke, then she left to resume her lonely profession.
Later that night I saw her by a corner and as cold rain hung
In the air; I took her to an hotel, got heating going, she
jumped into bed ready to do her duty, but I was pensive
waiting to write a poem about Trieste.
When I awoke tired morning light seeped through holed
curtains, the girl had put a blanket around me in the night
I was grateful for that. We breakfasted; she had fried eggs
and ham, I drank coffee and a little brandy. Saw her dance
down the street, yes she looked like an eager colt. Hoped
she would meet a rich man, marry him and become his
respectable whore instead of ending up an old diseased
slag begging drinks from men who are ready to debase her.
Two days later I took the train to Trieste, I asked around
but no one had seen the American girl and the poem was
never written.
Livorno this dreary harbour port, not Rome and now in
winter a ghost town, every window shuttered telling not
of life inside. Into the bar came a young woman, long legs
like a colt, she was frozen warmed her hand and fanny by
the fire. I thought she looked like the American I had once
seen the shadow of in Trieste, I offered her a drink, she
had a coke, then she left to resume her lonely profession.
Later that night I saw her by a corner and as cold rain hung
In the air; I took her to an hotel, got heating going, she
jumped into bed ready to do her duty, but I was pensive
waiting to write a poem about Trieste.
When I awoke tired morning light seeped through holed
curtains, the girl had put a blanket around me in the night
I was grateful for that. We breakfasted; she had fried eggs
and ham, I drank coffee and a little brandy. Saw her dance
down the street, yes she looked like an eager colt. Hoped
she would meet a rich man, marry him and become his
respectable whore instead of ending up an old diseased
slag begging drinks from men who are ready to debase her.
Two days later I took the train to Trieste, I asked around
but no one had seen the American girl and the poem was
never written.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
the jogger
The Jogger
They said he had invented jogging and he was quite
addicted to his invention, ran every afternoon longer
and longer distances; till he dropped dead.
“He had congenital heart disease and would have died
anyway,” the defenders of jogging said.
Sure but that’s not the point he could have died when
copulating, angling, having a splendid meal with wine
or congenial drink with friends in the bar, and not
prancing about in shorts on a cold road alone a chilly
autumnal evening.
They said he had invented jogging and he was quite
addicted to his invention, ran every afternoon longer
and longer distances; till he dropped dead.
“He had congenital heart disease and would have died
anyway,” the defenders of jogging said.
Sure but that’s not the point he could have died when
copulating, angling, having a splendid meal with wine
or congenial drink with friends in the bar, and not
prancing about in shorts on a cold road alone a chilly
autumnal evening.
o marmelo
O Marmelo (a pear shaped fruit of
the quince, tree can also mean
“Saio de Mulher” Bosom)
Al-Musahfi ca 982
Translated from
old Portuguese by Jan Oskar Hansen
O Marmelo
Is of the colour yellow that of shame
A narcissist’ tunic and it has a musky
Penetrating aroma
As the perfume of once beloved and has
The same force as the heart but has
The colour of one who is in love and
haggard.
Her paleness is but an imprint of my pallor
And my breath has the aroma
Of my woman’s breaths
Fragrant when the fruit is lifted from the branch
Under the brocade of woven leaves, suavely
In my hand I carry it indoors and put it as
A costly treasure, in my alcove
Dressed in grey down which flutters on its
Smooth golden body
And when in my hand, naked sans its shirt-
The colour of narcissism- makes me record
What I can’t express as the heat of my vigor
Fades and drips between my fingers
the quince, tree can also mean
“Saio de Mulher” Bosom)
Al-Musahfi ca 982
Translated from
old Portuguese by Jan Oskar Hansen
O Marmelo
Is of the colour yellow that of shame
A narcissist’ tunic and it has a musky
Penetrating aroma
As the perfume of once beloved and has
The same force as the heart but has
The colour of one who is in love and
haggard.
Her paleness is but an imprint of my pallor
And my breath has the aroma
Of my woman’s breaths
Fragrant when the fruit is lifted from the branch
Under the brocade of woven leaves, suavely
In my hand I carry it indoors and put it as
A costly treasure, in my alcove
Dressed in grey down which flutters on its
Smooth golden body
And when in my hand, naked sans its shirt-
The colour of narcissism- makes me record
What I can’t express as the heat of my vigor
Fades and drips between my fingers
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
tomorrows world
Tomorrows World
So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.
We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.
This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die
So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.
We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.
This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
the disappeared
The Disappeared
The man, in our village, who died last
year is now entirely forgotten, since
he passed away- before Christmas-
someone else had to come kill the pigs.
His wife has shed her mourning dress
has got a lover, he arrives late at her
house and leaves at dawn; we know
and decorously pretend we don’t
It is a bit frightening to realize who
quickly the deceased are forgotten,
it must be so it’s good for our ego
to see how insignificant we are.
There is a new killer of pigs now, he
lives in the next village and it is said
he’s even better at it then the one who
expired; what was his name again?
As I write these meager lines millions
have died, some in agony we cannot
shed tears for the world’s monotony,
forget and welcome the newborns.
So, hold on to life do not strangle it
with impossible demands of longevity
smell the rose they are demises perfume
and hope you’ll see tomorrow’s sunrise.
The man, in our village, who died last
year is now entirely forgotten, since
he passed away- before Christmas-
someone else had to come kill the pigs.
His wife has shed her mourning dress
has got a lover, he arrives late at her
house and leaves at dawn; we know
and decorously pretend we don’t
It is a bit frightening to realize who
quickly the deceased are forgotten,
it must be so it’s good for our ego
to see how insignificant we are.
There is a new killer of pigs now, he
lives in the next village and it is said
he’s even better at it then the one who
expired; what was his name again?
As I write these meager lines millions
have died, some in agony we cannot
shed tears for the world’s monotony,
forget and welcome the newborns.
So, hold on to life do not strangle it
with impossible demands of longevity
smell the rose they are demises perfume
and hope you’ll see tomorrow’s sunrise.
tomorrow's world
Tomorrows World
So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.
We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.
This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die
So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.
We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.
This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die
tanka for you
Tanka
Quiver in fingers
Folded as a butterflies wings
Long is the day after
Suckling pig and strong wine
And too early for a beer
Quiver in fingers
Folded as a butterflies wings
Long is the day after
Suckling pig and strong wine
And too early for a beer
white skin
Original Title
A Tez Branca
By IBN ABD RABBINI
Ca 860 - 940
White Skin
A thing like this
Have we never
Heard of,
The reward for modesty
A goat horn transformed
Into a pearl
So very shiny her face
When contemplating
Its perfection, that the real
Face vanishes in its
Own clarity
A Tez Branca
By IBN ABD RABBINI
Ca 860 - 940
White Skin
A thing like this
Have we never
Heard of,
The reward for modesty
A goat horn transformed
Into a pearl
So very shiny her face
When contemplating
Its perfection, that the real
Face vanishes in its
Own clarity
Monday, September 22, 2008
The proletariat
The Proletariat
A creamy butterfly
Sat on a big yellow rose,
Softly fluttering wings
Betrayed its modest presence
A common sparrow swooped.
I sadly concluded:
The masses don’t care for art
Busy as they are,
Wedded to a life of work,
No time to stop and wonder.
A creamy butterfly
Sat on a big yellow rose,
Softly fluttering wings
Betrayed its modest presence
A common sparrow swooped.
I sadly concluded:
The masses don’t care for art
Busy as they are,
Wedded to a life of work,
No time to stop and wonder.
Denmark mon Amour
Denmark, Mon Amour
Aarhus, Denmark, yes I was there many years ago,
perhaps the place has changed but I doubt it. Met
a woman there her name was Margot, about my age,
a racy thirty, I was off a ship going home next day.
How perfectly we danced together and how I liked
the promising glint in her brown eyes, yes she was
the right one for me; and when the bar closed it was
only natural that I followed her home.
But as she turned the key on the lock of her door,
she asked me for money, shocked I mumbled yes,
but wondered if I would be able to after this cold
shower of naked reality
She had a dog and as she put a mattress on the floor
for us to lie on, the dog kept glaring at me, its eyes
were spiteful eyes night after night it saw men doing
things to her it could only dream of
I took my trousers off and tried to get through this
act of loves’ betrayal when the dog had had enough
and bit my bum, I began giggling and gave up this
pretense and we’re all relieved when I left.
Aarhus, Denmark, yes I was there many years ago,
perhaps the place has changed but I doubt it. Met
a woman there her name was Margot, about my age,
a racy thirty, I was off a ship going home next day.
How perfectly we danced together and how I liked
the promising glint in her brown eyes, yes she was
the right one for me; and when the bar closed it was
only natural that I followed her home.
But as she turned the key on the lock of her door,
she asked me for money, shocked I mumbled yes,
but wondered if I would be able to after this cold
shower of naked reality
She had a dog and as she put a mattress on the floor
for us to lie on, the dog kept glaring at me, its eyes
were spiteful eyes night after night it saw men doing
things to her it could only dream of
I took my trousers off and tried to get through this
act of loves’ betrayal when the dog had had enough
and bit my bum, I began giggling and gave up this
pretense and we’re all relieved when I left.
autumnal song
An Autumnal Song
Autumn in the park leaves keep falling off trees,
silently just like snow; many people around,
children behave themselves and dogs do ditto
Oslo enjoys a rare threat, a clear Saturday sky,
soon there will be massive rain falls, later sleet and
endless snow, and naked tree will suffer for our sins.
Tomorrow I’ll return to Portugal, where leaves fall
off trees too, but in time of decay the almond tree
will flower and strew silky snow on my way.
Peace will come over me, the burden of nostalgia
and sadness that made me weary in Oslo will leave,
and I will be free of my past.
I have lived in here twenty years, that’s how old I’m
having been born twice, first time I had no say in
the matter, but this time, however, I willed it.
And I shall go on living here amongst thorny bushes,
olive, carob and almond trees, I will not leave again
until my journey comes to an end
Autumn in the park leaves keep falling off trees,
silently just like snow; many people around,
children behave themselves and dogs do ditto
Oslo enjoys a rare threat, a clear Saturday sky,
soon there will be massive rain falls, later sleet and
endless snow, and naked tree will suffer for our sins.
Tomorrow I’ll return to Portugal, where leaves fall
off trees too, but in time of decay the almond tree
will flower and strew silky snow on my way.
Peace will come over me, the burden of nostalgia
and sadness that made me weary in Oslo will leave,
and I will be free of my past.
I have lived in here twenty years, that’s how old I’m
having been born twice, first time I had no say in
the matter, but this time, however, I willed it.
And I shall go on living here amongst thorny bushes,
olive, carob and almond trees, I will not leave again
until my journey comes to an end
lovesick blues
It’s Love, You See.
Knocked on the lovely ladies door, asked if
I could weed the flowers in her front garden,
mow the lawn and trim her hedge. She smiled,
said she has a man in the house to do it.
“Next year?” “Perhaps,” she said and gently
closed the door. Then it was autumn, leaves
flew trough the air making me feel blue;
then winter with snow, and from my window
I saw see her garden looked like every one
else’s, suburbia landscape
Spring came suddenly and her garden was
a mess, weeds were strangulating her flowers,
the lawn a jungle, her hedge looked like
a broken accordion. I walked over and asked
her again, she was in a foul mood, said: “I could
do what I wanted but don’t expect her to be
grateful, I hate men you’re all alike,” with that
she slammed the door shut. It took me weeks
to get the garden ship shape, but when all was
perfect I knocked on her door again.
She came out into the summer sun shine, but
she wasn’t alone leaning her head against
a man’s shoulders she smiled up to me with
teeth that looked like marble headstones in
a Spanish graveyard in moonlight, and her
eyes had the hard glint of sapphires. From my
window I can see her garden it’s lit up by
the light of her bedroom window, and when
the light is switched off I still sit there, tell
myself that I don’t lover her anymore.
Knocked on the lovely ladies door, asked if
I could weed the flowers in her front garden,
mow the lawn and trim her hedge. She smiled,
said she has a man in the house to do it.
“Next year?” “Perhaps,” she said and gently
closed the door. Then it was autumn, leaves
flew trough the air making me feel blue;
then winter with snow, and from my window
I saw see her garden looked like every one
else’s, suburbia landscape
Spring came suddenly and her garden was
a mess, weeds were strangulating her flowers,
the lawn a jungle, her hedge looked like
a broken accordion. I walked over and asked
her again, she was in a foul mood, said: “I could
do what I wanted but don’t expect her to be
grateful, I hate men you’re all alike,” with that
she slammed the door shut. It took me weeks
to get the garden ship shape, but when all was
perfect I knocked on her door again.
She came out into the summer sun shine, but
she wasn’t alone leaning her head against
a man’s shoulders she smiled up to me with
teeth that looked like marble headstones in
a Spanish graveyard in moonlight, and her
eyes had the hard glint of sapphires. From my
window I can see her garden it’s lit up by
the light of her bedroom window, and when
the light is switched off I still sit there, tell
myself that I don’t lover her anymore.
sunday Reflections
Sunday Reflections
Oslo airport, outside the sun shines cold and
the sky is a sheet of blue ice. Three days I spent
in Oslo looking at dwellings, near the castle,
nicely done up they were just like whores who
have had the good fortune marrying a rich idiot,
forgotten is the shady past, serious mien the poor
husband never gets a leg over now.
Hardy people the Oslo inhabitants are drink beer
with ice lumps in while it snows, this because
they can’t go inside to smoke, their hearts too frozen
too show any emotion other than watching porno.
I wanted to say halloo to my old friend the king,
knocked on the castle’s door his dim witted son
opened, I pinned a note on his forehead and left.
It’s nice to sit inside the warm airport knowing
soon I’ll be back in Portugal, it isn’t perfect and
rich, but the people have a song in their hearts
and the weather is for walking in her landscape,
beer is very cheap too and so is good bottle of
plonk. But roots are deep, when leaving I cried
a little, wish I could love my country a little more.
Oslo airport, outside the sun shines cold and
the sky is a sheet of blue ice. Three days I spent
in Oslo looking at dwellings, near the castle,
nicely done up they were just like whores who
have had the good fortune marrying a rich idiot,
forgotten is the shady past, serious mien the poor
husband never gets a leg over now.
Hardy people the Oslo inhabitants are drink beer
with ice lumps in while it snows, this because
they can’t go inside to smoke, their hearts too frozen
too show any emotion other than watching porno.
I wanted to say halloo to my old friend the king,
knocked on the castle’s door his dim witted son
opened, I pinned a note on his forehead and left.
It’s nice to sit inside the warm airport knowing
soon I’ll be back in Portugal, it isn’t perfect and
rich, but the people have a song in their hearts
and the weather is for walking in her landscape,
beer is very cheap too and so is good bottle of
plonk. But roots are deep, when leaving I cried
a little, wish I could love my country a little more.
Literature
Literature
Tomorrow I’ll be in Oslo, Norway, haven’t been there
for than twenty years. My brother lived in Oslo, back
then I knocked on his door, he didn’t open siblings’,
rivalry; told him I was living for Portugal and not
coming back; his silence distressed me and now he’s
dead. Yes, so I loved his wife and she came with me,
to Portugal. Tomorrow night I will be in Oslo…alone,
yes she left me too but I ain’t bitter I’ve been around for
quite awhile. By his graveside I’ll explain it all whether
he likes it or not, and make him understand that I made
a favour taking her away from his academic life; after
with her in the house he wouldn’t have been able to
write a weighty tome 800 page tome like: “The future
of poetry in the age of computers and cyber speak.”
Tomorrow I’ll be in Oslo, Norway, haven’t been there
for than twenty years. My brother lived in Oslo, back
then I knocked on his door, he didn’t open siblings’,
rivalry; told him I was living for Portugal and not
coming back; his silence distressed me and now he’s
dead. Yes, so I loved his wife and she came with me,
to Portugal. Tomorrow night I will be in Oslo…alone,
yes she left me too but I ain’t bitter I’ve been around for
quite awhile. By his graveside I’ll explain it all whether
he likes it or not, and make him understand that I made
a favour taking her away from his academic life; after
with her in the house he wouldn’t have been able to
write a weighty tome 800 page tome like: “The future
of poetry in the age of computers and cyber speak.”
inconsequent calamity
Inconsequent Calamity.
Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;
maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.
Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;
maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.
musical houses
Musical houses
And this is not a poem
A takes B´s house, B takes C’s house,
C lives in a tent and bids his time;
end of round one.
C, sees his chance retakes his house,
B goes back and demands his
rightful house from A.
A has lost, serves him right he’s
the ant Semitic bastard who started
it all, end of game till next genocide.
And this is not a poem
A takes B´s house, B takes C’s house,
C lives in a tent and bids his time;
end of round one.
C, sees his chance retakes his house,
B goes back and demands his
rightful house from A.
A has lost, serves him right he’s
the ant Semitic bastard who started
it all, end of game till next genocide.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Texas Gush
The Texas Gush
Surge in Baghdad and soldiers build
walls how banal, as the ocean surges
and islands disappear in the pacific;
let’s invade Nepal now, ring it with
a wall of soldiers and be safe; as sea
rises we can just climb higher up;
till we reach a bergs top, spend time
pushing each other off till there is
only one left and he kills himself;
a cold rock on the vast sea no wall
to stop its surges, but will the world
be free of annoying seagull shrikes?
Surge in Baghdad and soldiers build
walls how banal, as the ocean surges
and islands disappear in the pacific;
let’s invade Nepal now, ring it with
a wall of soldiers and be safe; as sea
rises we can just climb higher up;
till we reach a bergs top, spend time
pushing each other off till there is
only one left and he kills himself;
a cold rock on the vast sea no wall
to stop its surges, but will the world
be free of annoying seagull shrikes?
inconsequent calamity
Inconsequent Calamity.
Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;
maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.
Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;
maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.
Friday, September 12, 2008
look back in sadness
Look back in Sadness.
(Written as Tanka)
Bundle of photos
Face down in a cigar box
Family and friends
From a time that is a dream
Fading into eternity
Mostly black & white
How young my parents looked
Now I’m the oldest
Siblings faded fast away
As I sailed many seas
Non returnable
Past’s gate is firmly padlocked
Wait in no mans land
Know there is no remedy
The past really is a dream.
(Written as Tanka)
Bundle of photos
Face down in a cigar box
Family and friends
From a time that is a dream
Fading into eternity
Mostly black & white
How young my parents looked
Now I’m the oldest
Siblings faded fast away
As I sailed many seas
Non returnable
Past’s gate is firmly padlocked
Wait in no mans land
Know there is no remedy
The past really is a dream.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
US Soldiers
US Soldiers.
Full of propaganda and democratic zeal
the US soldiers came to Iraq; five years
later they now know there is no “Mission
Accomplished.” The soldiers have grown
up and no longer believe in this war, they
now call useless, mockingly laugh when
politicians speak of winning.
Good, working-class kids, manipulated
and lied to, from small towns and rural
communities, they are true Americans
who love their country, I salute them and
hope their leaders will think well before
asking them to fight, bleed and die for yet
another useless war.
Full of propaganda and democratic zeal
the US soldiers came to Iraq; five years
later they now know there is no “Mission
Accomplished.” The soldiers have grown
up and no longer believe in this war, they
now call useless, mockingly laugh when
politicians speak of winning.
Good, working-class kids, manipulated
and lied to, from small towns and rural
communities, they are true Americans
who love their country, I salute them and
hope their leaders will think well before
asking them to fight, bleed and die for yet
another useless war.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
wedding party
(Wedding Party)
Sailing down night Seine
Champagne brut and goose liver
The Eiffel Tower
Dressed in bright coloured charms
Looked like a demi monde
When the barge banked
I gave Seine the bird’s liver
Peed in the river
Studied the sliver of moon
Dreaming of ice cold lager
Paris’s night streets
September mild and at ease
Bars and bistros shut
The worthless slept in doorways
And I thought of Edit Piaf
Sailing down night Seine
Champagne brut and goose liver
The Eiffel Tower
Dressed in bright coloured charms
Looked like a demi monde
When the barge banked
I gave Seine the bird’s liver
Peed in the river
Studied the sliver of moon
Dreaming of ice cold lager
Paris’s night streets
September mild and at ease
Bars and bistros shut
The worthless slept in doorways
And I thought of Edit Piaf
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
five new haiku
Haiku
Misty night seeps down
Melancholic September
Averse sky pain for the sun
Haiku
Green moss on wet wall
The northwesterly blows rain
Normal October
Haiku
Parasols seek shelter
Courageous are umbrellas
Joust November storms
Haiku
Festive shop windows
Preen and vie for customers
Long after closing time
Haiku
Fire-works on night sky
Cannot vie with shooting stars
Quarter past twelve
Misty night seeps down
Melancholic September
Averse sky pain for the sun
Haiku
Green moss on wet wall
The northwesterly blows rain
Normal October
Haiku
Parasols seek shelter
Courageous are umbrellas
Joust November storms
Haiku
Festive shop windows
Preen and vie for customers
Long after closing time
Haiku
Fire-works on night sky
Cannot vie with shooting stars
Quarter past twelve
four senryu (s)
Senryu
Now that I’m old
No one seeks or wants my love
Except my dog
Senryu
The girl at the till
Doesn’t see me as a person
I’m just an old face
Senryu
Graveyards are places
Where old men recall their past
And remember mum
Senryu
The fear of oldness
Can only be assuaged
By senility
Now that I’m old
No one seeks or wants my love
Except my dog
Senryu
The girl at the till
Doesn’t see me as a person
I’m just an old face
Senryu
Graveyards are places
Where old men recall their past
And remember mum
Senryu
The fear of oldness
Can only be assuaged
By senility
review of my latest book "homecoming"
JAN OSKAR HANSEN
HOMECOMING...Prose, Poetry, Senryu
By a Norwegian sailor - stunning, candid reflections of a life on sea and land.
Published by Cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN 978-81-8253-121-5, First Edition, 140 pages, paperback, $15,00.
HOMECOMING is the third one of a triptych of poems: End Of A Voyage, Homeward Bound, Homecoming.
Hansen takes us on an unforgettable journey through his life as a high seas roller. An adventure of brilliant insights. His love, respect and understanding of both nature and humanity with all its foibles. He shocks us into another world with humour and pathos. All masterfully written in prose, poetry and senryu of literary signifance.
Jan Oskar Hansen makes us his shipmate and companion on a journey of a lifetime where we experience through his writing, each powerful, immediate, enlightening observations. His fresh individuality leads us to worlds of wonder, delights us in earthy pleasures with a philosophical twist. We become part of the tapestry he has woven of his multifaceted experiences.
We feel his emotions and passion for the written word as he witnesses many cultures, learns new languages and grows his imagination which is at once ‘dazzling’, thought provoking, candid, richly spiced with intimacy, dream, reality and vast visual vistas of profound awareness of nature in all its vitality.
In conclusion, here is an example of what you will find in HOMECOMING, Jan Oskar Hansen’s most recent brilliant achievement.
THE OLD TART
She’s and old tramp ship now, can’t afford to hire proper crew,
only harbour dregs, to take her to the next port. For some of us she’s home we try to keep her afloat a lick of paint here and there when it can be bought cheap or stolen from a warehouse, that’s getting hard now that all cargo are shipped by containers, locked and sealed. She was riding yellow swells, off Hock van Holland, when news come she’s to be sold as scrap iron the dregs are glad to be ashore bellies full of rum king. For us who loved the old lady it’s sad day, for us she will be the last ship, we know well that we don’t fit the new merchant navy regime, roll on roll off no time for poker and a little whisky.
SENRYU
The angry ocean
Left its irate foam behind
In secret coves
LOVES LAMENT
In the morning breeze I can hear you voice
softly calling my name
in the haze I can see
the contours of you face
In the meadow’s stream
I hear you laughter and
the water in the well is as clear as your tears
the day you said farewell
All in nature reminds me of you,
transient our love, like the flowering almond tree;
beauty never lasts and it was yesteryear.
HAPPY ENDING?
Love is overrated
The cynical sardonically say
But it keeps us sane
Literary review (2008) by Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Author, Poet, Visual Artist (Canada) based upon ‘Homecoming’, published by cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN978-81-8253-121-15 First Edition, 140 Pages, CAN$15.00
JAN OSKAR HANSEN (Portugal). His poems have been published in 20 literary magazines worldwide, including:
Hudson Review, USA, Skyline, USA, Skald, Wales, La rue Bella, England, The Bards, England, War is a dangerous place, England, The Black Mountain Review, Ireland, ARS Poetica India, India, Braquemard, England, Firefly Magazine, USA, Pphoo, India, Taj Mahal Review, India, Remark Magazine, USA, Journal of Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, England.
His poems appear in many anthologies. Collections ‘Letters from Portugal’ (bewrite books) Bristol, ‘La Strada’ Lapwing Publishers), Belfast, ‘End of Voyage’ (WFP New York), ‘Marilyn Monroe Remembered’ Erbacce Press, Liverpool, ‘The Fairground’ Ranch, India (out of print now).
BARBARA ELIZABETH MERCER (CANADA) Poet, Visual Artist, Author of 4 books of poetry published by Cyberwit,net (India), SECRETS, 2008, LEGACY, 2007, SELF PORTRAIT, 2006, MYSTIC WILLS, 2005. Co-author with Steve Chering, London, UK, book of poetry WHEN POETS COLLIDE, Pub. Lulu,com, USA, Her paintings, in Public Collections: University of Toronto Art Centre, Imperial Oil, Robert McLaughlin Gallery, Oshawa, Canada. Many international private collections.
HOMECOMING...Prose, Poetry, Senryu
By a Norwegian sailor - stunning, candid reflections of a life on sea and land.
Published by Cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN 978-81-8253-121-5, First Edition, 140 pages, paperback, $15,00.
HOMECOMING is the third one of a triptych of poems: End Of A Voyage, Homeward Bound, Homecoming.
Hansen takes us on an unforgettable journey through his life as a high seas roller. An adventure of brilliant insights. His love, respect and understanding of both nature and humanity with all its foibles. He shocks us into another world with humour and pathos. All masterfully written in prose, poetry and senryu of literary signifance.
Jan Oskar Hansen makes us his shipmate and companion on a journey of a lifetime where we experience through his writing, each powerful, immediate, enlightening observations. His fresh individuality leads us to worlds of wonder, delights us in earthy pleasures with a philosophical twist. We become part of the tapestry he has woven of his multifaceted experiences.
We feel his emotions and passion for the written word as he witnesses many cultures, learns new languages and grows his imagination which is at once ‘dazzling’, thought provoking, candid, richly spiced with intimacy, dream, reality and vast visual vistas of profound awareness of nature in all its vitality.
In conclusion, here is an example of what you will find in HOMECOMING, Jan Oskar Hansen’s most recent brilliant achievement.
THE OLD TART
She’s and old tramp ship now, can’t afford to hire proper crew,
only harbour dregs, to take her to the next port. For some of us she’s home we try to keep her afloat a lick of paint here and there when it can be bought cheap or stolen from a warehouse, that’s getting hard now that all cargo are shipped by containers, locked and sealed. She was riding yellow swells, off Hock van Holland, when news come she’s to be sold as scrap iron the dregs are glad to be ashore bellies full of rum king. For us who loved the old lady it’s sad day, for us she will be the last ship, we know well that we don’t fit the new merchant navy regime, roll on roll off no time for poker and a little whisky.
SENRYU
The angry ocean
Left its irate foam behind
In secret coves
LOVES LAMENT
In the morning breeze I can hear you voice
softly calling my name
in the haze I can see
the contours of you face
In the meadow’s stream
I hear you laughter and
the water in the well is as clear as your tears
the day you said farewell
All in nature reminds me of you,
transient our love, like the flowering almond tree;
beauty never lasts and it was yesteryear.
HAPPY ENDING?
Love is overrated
The cynical sardonically say
But it keeps us sane
Literary review (2008) by Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Author, Poet, Visual Artist (Canada) based upon ‘Homecoming’, published by cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN978-81-8253-121-15 First Edition, 140 Pages, CAN$15.00
JAN OSKAR HANSEN (Portugal). His poems have been published in 20 literary magazines worldwide, including:
Hudson Review, USA, Skyline, USA, Skald, Wales, La rue Bella, England, The Bards, England, War is a dangerous place, England, The Black Mountain Review, Ireland, ARS Poetica India, India, Braquemard, England, Firefly Magazine, USA, Pphoo, India, Taj Mahal Review, India, Remark Magazine, USA, Journal of Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, England.
His poems appear in many anthologies. Collections ‘Letters from Portugal’ (bewrite books) Bristol, ‘La Strada’ Lapwing Publishers), Belfast, ‘End of Voyage’ (WFP New York), ‘Marilyn Monroe Remembered’ Erbacce Press, Liverpool, ‘The Fairground’ Ranch, India (out of print now).
BARBARA ELIZABETH MERCER (CANADA) Poet, Visual Artist, Author of 4 books of poetry published by Cyberwit,net (India), SECRETS, 2008, LEGACY, 2007, SELF PORTRAIT, 2006, MYSTIC WILLS, 2005. Co-author with Steve Chering, London, UK, book of poetry WHEN POETS COLLIDE, Pub. Lulu,com, USA, Her paintings, in Public Collections: University of Toronto Art Centre, Imperial Oil, Robert McLaughlin Gallery, Oshawa, Canada. Many international private collections.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
machination
Machination
In my vale I hear the echo of combat,
bullets targeted forward fired by lucky
warriors who kill civilians who, with
their chattel, obscure the long view.
The right place, wrong time, blood and
bodies under canvas, tears; pledge of
vengeance. Death is clean and nattily
dressed, sport sunglasses day and night.
In my vale I hear the echo of combat,
bullets targeted forward fired by lucky
warriors who kill civilians who, with
their chattel, obscure the long view.
The right place, wrong time, blood and
bodies under canvas, tears; pledge of
vengeance. Death is clean and nattily
dressed, sport sunglasses day and night.
3 new haiku
Haiku
The vanishing act
Summer leaves the verandah
Autumn light enters
Haiku
Deepening shadows
Fallen leaves on the terrace
Time for reflections
Haiku
A summer has gone
The breeze has a chill within
Will we meet next year?
The vanishing act
Summer leaves the verandah
Autumn light enters
Haiku
Deepening shadows
Fallen leaves on the terrace
Time for reflections
Haiku
A summer has gone
The breeze has a chill within
Will we meet next year?
Monday, September 01, 2008
tanak on a string
Tanka
Translate Moor poems
From Portuguese to English
And hear the murmur,
An echo of poets’ songs
Going back a thousand years.
Tanka
Andalusia,
Once an Arabic province
Poets once lived there
Sat dreaming in lush gardens
Writing verses of lost love
Tanka
Andalusia,
Christians marched
Sun shone on bloodied swords
Moslem’s peaceful rule vanished
But poets’ verses live on
Translate Moor poems
From Portuguese to English
And hear the murmur,
An echo of poets’ songs
Going back a thousand years.
Tanka
Andalusia,
Once an Arabic province
Poets once lived there
Sat dreaming in lush gardens
Writing verses of lost love
Tanka
Andalusia,
Christians marched
Sun shone on bloodied swords
Moslem’s peaceful rule vanished
But poets’ verses live on
the sea
The Sea.
I was an orphan lost on the vast plateau
of land till I came to the coast and saw
the sea wench all beginnings sprang;
yet I swim close to shore where the sea
is clear and has no dark, mysterious spots,
she is a greedy mother her love is total;
she hates land that stole her off springs,
hammers shores and will not desist and
be at ease before all is gone.
I was an orphan lost on the vast plateau
of land till I came to the coast and saw
the sea wench all beginnings sprang;
yet I swim close to shore where the sea
is clear and has no dark, mysterious spots,
she is a greedy mother her love is total;
she hates land that stole her off springs,
hammers shores and will not desist and
be at ease before all is gone.
the orange orchard
The Orange Orchard.
Original title “A Laranjeira”
By IBN Sara
Written ca ( 1123)
As wood burning bright
trees stand fruit partly
hidden coloured dots in
shadow of a green curtains
The fruit hang on a delicate
thread and silently tell of those
who have suffered and suffer
for love
I see an orange orchard as
a place that shows its fruit
as red tears of who have endured
the torments of love
Tears petrified now, yet
with depth of pain
that reaches deep the soil making
it fertile for lovers.
Corneal fruit amongst
foliage that shines as topaz,
in your hand, as sapphire,
when cut in half.
Sometimes we kiss the fruit,
other times we inhale its aroma
like it should be the beautiful
face of a lass or the perfumed
breast of a woman.
Original title “A Laranjeira”
By IBN Sara
Written ca ( 1123)
As wood burning bright
trees stand fruit partly
hidden coloured dots in
shadow of a green curtains
The fruit hang on a delicate
thread and silently tell of those
who have suffered and suffer
for love
I see an orange orchard as
a place that shows its fruit
as red tears of who have endured
the torments of love
Tears petrified now, yet
with depth of pain
that reaches deep the soil making
it fertile for lovers.
Corneal fruit amongst
foliage that shines as topaz,
in your hand, as sapphire,
when cut in half.
Sometimes we kiss the fruit,
other times we inhale its aroma
like it should be the beautiful
face of a lass or the perfumed
breast of a woman.
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