Jan Oskar Hansen,
PL
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Free Verse
A Street in Paris
September morning, the
sign at the top of the street
leading into a small park reads: rue Amsterdam, Paris
A languor of leaves
fall...
ing
in hues of auburn.
Romanians sleep in the park—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.
There is nothing chic about Parisian women early in the morning!
People hasten to gar St. Salazar, to take the tube to their place
of work.
Ambling along, I come to a sign that reads: gar de Stalin.
People who live there now are mostly first generation Arabs.
They have no idea who Stalin was.
There are many Arabs about today.
In a way, this morning has an Algerian feel to it.
As the sun warms the air, there is a distinct scent
of African tobacco.
I'm going to a posh wedding held 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 baguettes 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.
Edith Piaf
(December 19, 1915—October 10, 1963)—almost universally regarded
as France's most popular singer.
The Egg
I was making an
omelette.
Only shells left in an empty egg tray, no embryos today.
I called the dog who was in the garden and had dug itself into a
hole;
there was nothing I could do. The snow began and didn't stop
'till the landscape became eternally white.
A Red Fox looked innocent, but had not seen the hare 'till it
stirred. . . .
droplets of ruby on glistering crystals.
There had been a battle
across the thawing
Russian steppe.
Limbs pointed upwards, like stiffened twigs of dead trees
with the need to tell the untold story of war and eternal
suffering.
Under a lone tree, shot many times, but still standing, a Red
Fox
sniffed the air for hares—
a single shot rolled over the
landscape.
It's Springtime again and man was back in action.
Short Poems
Rain on the mountain—
The River runs fiercely with rage
To meet its maker.
Haiku
Sunrise
Crystals of glistering snow
Disappear
Unambiguous
Is the cold northerly wind
The master of frost
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