pastr& future

Past & Future

My past is
as vast as
Siberia
frozen most
of the year
and mushy
when
remembering
spring.
My future
is a strip of
land,
the size of
Palestine,
where
someone
has built a wall
hindering it
to expand

meandering afternoon

Meandering Afternoon.


The table, light catches a singular drop of
blush on the carpet which doesn’t respond,
no more than a road would do to a street light,
asphalt is grey at night, not black and full of
spilt ale it felt adventurous, curled itself up
and splashed into the landscape where roads
had never before dared to thread. How happy
they were animals and tractors until they
discovered the road ended by a river, too
deep to cross in winters and too stony for
sore hooves in summers. This problem was
overcome when someone found a nugget of
gold and the landscape was full of prospectors
who survived, by eating their mules slowly.

the lily and the rose

The Lily and a Rose
IBN al QUITIYYA (ca1120)
And Jan Oskar Hansen 2007

Taste the wine as you inhale
the fragrance of white lilies,
and at dawn, with a lover, see
the awakening of a rose.

As we suckle the heavens
tits of lilies milk and
rose’s blood we fill our
hearts with love

There are those who prefer
the camphor tree, the queen
of whiteness and the rose
that steals the shade


Idealized whiteness exhibited
by the lily, signify a sad
morning farewell, the paling
of lovers hands.


Or, if preferred, tubular silver
sheaves, embedded in wood,
that in the heat of nights set
fire to the wind

an Indian kiss

An Indian Kiss.

Ravana, the Indian princess, who lives in
a palace just outside Bombay, has invited
me to her sumptuous home; alas, I can not
go, years ago, when in New Delhi, I kissed
a sweet flower lady on both cheeks and was
chased around the city by a mob who threw
sticks and stones, had to wear a false beard
for weeks and just made it across the border
to Moslem Pakistan. A court order to arrest
me, promptly, for lewd behaviour still stand,
so I guess my princess will have to come see
me at my modest cottage, if she wants a kiss
on her rosy cheeks; not at the airport though,
No! Goodness, Gracious Me!

the death of a president

The Death of a President

The first elected president after seventy years
of dictatorship, was a big man, with a flushed
whisky face and a bully too, knew who to get
to the top, but when there he was incompetent
spent much time getting drunk. So the nomen
clatura took charge, created an oligarchy who
robbed the Soviet state and her people; that
many oligarchs are Jewish is purely incidental,
if anyone keeps mentioning their origins, I will
not hesitate to call him/her a sour Anti –Semite.
They are disloyal Russians who grabbed what
they could before fleeing abroad with their
loot. Nationhood is a commodity that can be
purchased and betrayed at the drop of a shekel.

the long voyage

The Long Voyage.

Tropical night on the deck of a tank-ship,
Caribbean Sea, the highest point on earth,
nowhere else are stars so near. Ink waters,
white where it has been crushed by the ship;
and through my feet I sense her heartbeat.
It’s the day that is long for a seafarer, work
routine, and talks in ever decreasing circles,
punctuated by rancorous silence and bitter
thoughts. From time to time the ship shudder
as fearing nights and the unknown destiny,
a storm too many? A slight heave I can feel
it now, restless weather ahead; good, it may
break the ennui that slows a seaman’s mind
into tiny, introverted circles of loneliness.

the guardians

The Guardians


The big supermarket with a bell tower that chimed
at regular hours but not now after midnight, looked
like space ship in a vast car park, and the dog that
lived in field not yet covered in concrete, where one
could find bicycle pumps, if you needed one and
searched long enough, had stopped barking, why it
had done so in the first place not even it knew, it was
now looking for food, as were illegal emigrants,
near the bins, wary of uniformed sentinels who took
it upon themselves to stop the hungry getting food
that was wasted anyway. They, the nocturnal guards,
is capitalism’s triumph, low paid men doing their
dirty deed, spraying bleach on dumped food to stop
the poor from eating it.

timeless zone

Timeless Zones.

The valley where I used to live was timeless
it had no mirrors except for the still water in
the village pond, young milk maids used to
walk into it, waist deep, till the pond showed
them what they wanted to see; back on land
they married one of the men who lurked around
Alas, there were instances when there wasn’t
anyone around, no matter how many times
a poor milkmaid waded into, the often icy,
water, but no one called her spinster, instead
she became the shaman of the vale. Sadly to
say a road was built, they called it progress,
traders came with watches and, mirrors, and
I left searching for another impossible dream.

godlike

Godlike.

When I open the lid of my cistern I bring
Light down into an obscure world if a fish
Look up and see my face it will think I’m
God and pray, when the water level is low
They all pray a lot and don’t bicker as much
They do in time of plenty. I call the farmer
Who has got a borehole and brings a tank
Load of water…rainy season for my fishes.
Time has changed our village is modernized
Get water from the mains, thought of making
The cistern into a bomb shelter, but decided
To keep it as a backup in hot summers, being
God, is a responsible calling for anyone...

The tears

The Tears


Yes, there had been so many deaths first my
siblings, two, than my father and later mother,
I was sad but lived a busy life and had my
home in another land, but it was there a lump
not released, waiting for me to stop running
and face up to my loss. My dog died I buried
her in hard winter soil in the outer field and
deep to protect her from being eaten by foxes
or other dogs, then tears came for all my losses
over years a floodgate had opened thought it
would never stop and she held me in her arms,
till I fell into a deep slumber; in the morning,
cold and clear, I was able to remember them
with love and hear their joyous laughter.

Tanka.

Refuse to call him I,
The man in the hand mirror
Not a flattering sight
I’m much younger then him
And has got more illusions

snow 1954

Snow 1954

Snowy night, streets were covered in a calm,
carpet of white and since it was Sunday morning,
with few cars about, the grubby town looked as
beautiful as a fairy tale; till Monday, when traffic
would churn snow into yellow, dirty slush and
people, in black or drab grey, would have mist
coming out of their mouths as they moaned about
the weather. In the park the snow would last for
days and I could make my foot prints large by
subbing my feet on the ground White contrasting
black trees and pale sky made for stark beauty; in
front of park benches where old men sat, talking
ships, tobacco spittle. Winter 1954, colours only
appeared in comic strips, a few western movies.

summer berries

Summer Berries.

Picked wild strawberries by the wayside,
they were dusty, but filled me with ecstatic
sweetness; my lips were red and swollen.
The milk-maid kissed me smack on my
mouth, pressed her adult body against my
thin frame, chocking me; called me a lovely
boy. Her face was huge, sweaty and so very
near, her eyes had a crazy shine and wide as
troll’s. Strength ebbed I was quivering jelly
overcome by a tickling sensation; happily
a cow mooed, spell broken. I got out of her
embrace and ran a thousand mile, till dawn
came, and a cockerel crewed; I wowed not
to eat wild strawberries ever again

food parcels

Food Parcels

From sandy coloured landscape, that has
patches of green where rivers run in hidden
valleys, women in black burka appear on
the dusty road. A little later a military truck
comes into view and stops, the women chat
eagerly amongst themselves, they have lined
faces, have lived in misery so long that they
are now insult proof. The men in the truck
hand out parcels of sugar, tea, tinned milk
and rice, they dislike this work, think it’s
beneath them, take pathetic reprisal by rudely
shouting at the women, who quickly leave
the road, disappear into a mud walled villages,
unseen from the gravel road and the world

food parcels

Food Parcels

From sandy coloured landscape, that has
patches of green where rivers run in hidden
valleys, women in black burka appear on
the dusty road. A little later a military truck
comes into view and stops, the women chat
eagerly amongst themselves, they have lined
faces, have lived in misery so long that they
are now insult proof. The men in the truck
hand out parcels of sugar, tea, tinned milk
and rice, they dislike this work, think it’s
beneath them, take pathetic reprisal by rudely
shouting at the women, who quickly leave
the road, disappear into a mud walled villages,
unseen from the gravel road and the world

climate

Climate Change

The sky was ice-blue just like my father’s
after shave, the sun was pale looked as
a flashlight with dying batteries. Evening
came early, unseen clouds congregated
and snow fell, big flakes it only took ten
to make a snowball. Next day it continued,
fell so heavy we couldn’t see, but it was
great fun and cars drove with head lights on.
But the snow didn’t cease, for forty days
and forty nights it went on, till our part of
the world was a vast plain with the top of
office blocks sticking up; and silent, but
heard father say: “So this is climate change
I thought it meant palm trees and lagoons.”

climate change

Climate Change

The sky was ice-blue just like my father’s
after shave, the sun was pale looked as
a flashlight with dying batteries. Evening
came early, unseen clouds congregated
and snow fell, big flakes it only took ten
to make a snowball. Next day it continued,
fell so heavy we couldn’t see, but it was
great fun and cars drove with head lights on.
But the snow didn’t cease, for forty days
and forty nights it went on, till our part of
the world was a vast plain with the top of
office blocks sticking up; and silent, but
heard father say: “So this is climate change
I thought it meant palm trees and lagoons.”

the forgotten home

The Forgotten Home


Odd it was to say halloo to a flat that had
been empty for so long, the word dropped
on the floor and lifted dust off carpets,
an audible sigh escaped through the open
door, ten years vigil had come to an end.
Grimy windows, dead flowers on the sill,
spiders had perished in their own webs.
Letters on the floor, yellow now, addressed
to me, too late to open them, only to find
that my hasty departure and long absence
had been misplaced; I’m not Peer Gynt
my Solveig wasn’t the type to hang around
waiting too long. This is my home, journey
is over, I have shelves full of old friends.

El Rocio

El Rocio


It’s hot at the bus station, dust whirls about like
tiny malevolent tornados stinging my eyes, shirt
clings to my back as a tiresome child; my bag is
heavy too, daren’t put it down, contains nothing
much, but its all I have got and a passport giving
me an identity. Have to ask when the bus to
Spain leaves, got to go to El Rocio where I have
a cottage and my dog, waits for me. They say, it
isn’t so, that I’m deluded confusing an old dream
with reality. I know they are mistaken, if I can
get on the right bus, one that doesn’t make u-turns
with a stern voiced driver telling me to get off, I’ll
be alright. I was happy in El Rocio, a woman sang
me lullabies, perhaps she was my mother.

haiku

Haiku

Dark clouds
On August sky
Relief


Haiku

The westerly cloud
Crossing the blue summer sky
Brings cooling shade