Jan Oskar Hansen, PT

 

 

A Declaration   We are living through a difficult time. In Europe anti-Semitism is on the rise,—Israel’s belligerent stands are no help and the world tends to not see the difference between the state and Jews in general; and since there is an inherent anti Semitism burrowed deep in the European soul, it is so easy to blame the Jew, as before, of the world’s ills. We must fight this problem before it becomes a plague. I would rather see the world be obliterated in an atomic storm than to see us going through a new souls destroying holocaust. For it is the aftermath of this tragedy that has made us a callous people who care not about the poor but only about our own well being. So let me make one thing clear—I firmly stand on the side of the Jews and even that I disagree with the Israeli state concerning the creation of a Palestinian state, I will not allow the people of the book to be obliterated. For without them the world will not be a place worth living.     Free Verse   Secular Humor   Bits of me flow through a plastic tube and into a see-through sack strapped to my leg, clots of blood move like worms as if they have a life of their own, yet they are bits of me and dance to music I haven’t heard before other than as an echo of stilled voices. Sing for me clots of my blood, where you happily swim in warm urine, tell me where can I find a clean river, bathe and be healed again? Amused, wriggling tails wave to me through a tube, today and tomorrow, the jokes are on you— the river ran dry years ago.     Senryu   Perfect rose shivers Fears being picked at dawn And fade in a vase     Perfect attraction Breathless, ravenous sex Delightful madness     Perfect marriage One is fondly remembered The other wears black     Prose Poem   Melancholy   On an impulse I went to see my daughter, who lives in a hilly town with bad roads. My ex girlfriend walked in—she is an unfinished love story, sun tanned and beautiful, but she had been drinking, and didn’t see me. She wanted to drink some more— people tried to stop her—she shrugged them off, unsteadily walked out to find a tavern or two. Later that evening I booked into a hotel and could hear her tipsy laughter in the bar. I didn’t join the set, but went up to my room. It turned out she had a room next to mine and later I endured her having sex with a man she had picked up somewhere. Met her in the breakfast room next morning; her casual lover had long since gone and she appeared glad to see me. We chatted about the old days, held hands and her eyes were sea green. We made love in my bed— she was warm and giving as always; tremor in her hands— she had a whisky and fell asleep in my arms.     The Ageless Beauty   There is a mannequin, in the dark corner of the hall, showing off a 1950 style swimsuit. She is beautiful, in her own eyes, which are made of coloured glass ...sea green. Dust on lips—she doesn’t care, not of the sultry type, shows no interest, in sexual matters. Spooks guests, when they have gone she smiles at her image that is forever 1950.     Senryu   Quiet rain falls— In a pond ringed by quartz, A modest swan swims     A pale human swan, Love poems and vitamin pills, Sighs under eiderdown     A moody cygnet, In the calm river Avon,— Wants to be a tern.   (Tern is also a three masted schooner)     A wingless tern The becalmed  schooner sways In Bombay Bay     Bus 8   On bus 8, to Garston I met my future wife— I was going to meet someone at the British Legion there, something about a job on a ship. At an outdoor cafe we bought cans of coke and also a bottle of rum—the job thing was forgotten. I thought she was the most understanding woman I had ever met. A fortnight later we got married, people I didn’t like much, brothers in laws, came to our reception. Dreams never last, like a worker’s money. I woke up one morning; no smell of coffee from downstairs— she had gone out and left a note: “Get a Job!” Took a bus to Albert Dock,—a ship there, going to Murmansk, needed a cook I didn’t hesitate, signed on, every morning made my own coffee and everyone else’s. I would still like to know if she, when coming back from Garston’s shopping centre, missed me.     Friends   A black cat wears a fixed smile, watches as an express train with no doors, runs into a tunnel where concrete and water fall from the ceiling. It is very cold—the cat wears a silk scarf and its best friend, a tame shark, that lives in a pond, is cold too; starving, it has bitten off the hand of its feeder. We, the smart people, avoid door-less trains, we fly instead and, like donkeys, suffer in silence the indignity of airports where stars are tinkling cell phones. The black cat meows—it sits in a shoe made of tiger shark leather, feeling comfy since it is raining outside it is also a tad sad— the shark used to be its best friend.     The Mistress   Mary Jo where are you now? Dusty bones in a cemetery? A dashing man drove you through the night, over a bridge that wasn’t there, into the water and then you were alone breathing through pockets of air in the car, waiting for him to come rescue you. Didn’t you hear his steps, on the pebbly road, as he ran away? And your tears became the sea. Mary Jo I have not forgotten you, the man who betrayed you is dead, they gave him a great send off, a president and the great came to his wake, wonder if anyone thought of you; even your parents were paid off not to talk of you in public, yet I do remember and I think of you now the charming man— the brother of brothers, has gone.     Tanka   Opening the curtain Dawn’s light got stuck in my eyes Intense brilliance Furniture became the foe— Slept on the carpet till noon     Tanka (boredom?)   Lived in dad’s house August heat, he trekked north I looked after it Nothing to do, drank brandy And dynamited his abode     August Night   In a black, starless late August sky, a sliver of moon— the golden scythe mows down the old—harvest time. They had forgotten to close windows and chills settled in their old lungs, they spit blood. Church bells toll— the day is hot and gives nothing away, the old priest is still on holiday, the new one is clumsy, hasn’t had a bath and a shave for days; an unspoken murmur of discontent. The cleric sweats—there is a smell of brandy, one of the church’s rejects? But they do take care of their own. This isn’t swine flu, nothing to report— just old people dying as they must.     August Tanka   Heat cracks the phone pole Lost voices seep down as tears But dry in the sun White streaks of intense sorrow A lover`s words go unheard.     White foam on azure sea Spindrift, brother of the cloud Spins a magic rug On which we can forever fly Till fairytales come true     Erection (A Sonnet)   August heat I sent in a comment to an article in the Guardian, dislike many of their readers, but it is a good paper, even if it tends to lose its nerves and waffle a bit when the pressure is on. I look to see if anything is written about lack of erection, not long ago my member could carry a beach towel, a party trick for one witness, now it will not even carry a paper napkin. I could write and ask the woman who is married to a comedian and has a sexual healing column in the Guardian, only I don`t like her much I think she’s fraud; and the comedian she married stop being funny after he dastardly divorced his first wife and married her. When working class people are successful they tend to marry “up” that is because they meet lots of new and well spoken people, who flatter them, but they are wrong they will be sandpapered down lose their strength to suit the middle class taste; rich they will be, so who cares?     Lost in Athens   Athens—confusing in August, what with the heat and pollution. I had spent the night sitting on a park bench, looking at a white wall lit up by moonlight, waiting for a movie, any movie, to begin. Forenoon—staggered into a church, joined a queue; a priest was handing out paper bags of sweet cakes. The old  lady behind me got none since she had been in the line three times. I ate a cake and gave the rest to the lady. Grateful she ate the rest blew up the bag and hit it against a tree and we were surrounded by an anti terrorist squad. The lady, a known would be terrorist, had been blowing up paper bags all over town, was arrested, they were going to arrest me too since I had supplied the bag, but since I was a tourist they let me go with a warning. Deep in the park I found a grotto— walked in and saw baby Jesus inside a small aquarium, he appeared like a dead angel as painted by Caravaggio, his Jesus opened his eyes smiled like, a street urchin selling himself to pederasts, and began masturbating— chocked I took a step back and collided with two nuns who laughed hysterically. Escaped—found a cellar bar drank ouzo served by a woman who looked like horse; she was a pony that had escaped from a Swedish circus. We hit it off—I have always been fond of horses, especially since according to an Indian chief in, an Alice Walker poem I have forgotten the title of, who says horses make the landscape more beautiful. Midnight she shut her bar, bareback—we rode through Athens mysterious night.     A Sonnet (San Suu Kyu)   Aung San Suu Kyu the fragrant daughter of a Burmese general is a scented lovely lady. Four years ago when she was 60 I wrote her a poem and it disappeared into the www. It’s her dignity and silence I find compelling I wouldn’t mind waking up in the morning and find her face on the pillow beside me. Yes, I know call me what ever you want, had she looked like Hillary Clinton, I would have protested against 18 month house arrest but my heart wouldn’t have been involved; now I feel as I’m losing her forever and I will never meet her and and say the three words I have waited so long to say. She is a symbol of peace and democracy, ok so I leave the politics up to you, all I want her to do is to see me smile and recognize my love for her.     August Mood   Rumours have it that she has died and I have not the courage to go find out. What I remember of her goes back fifteen years and the world is no longer the same; especially not here, in this transient tourist place, where no one is remembered long and misfits settle until they find this place is no paradise and seek other shores for their impossible dreams. I will rest easy in my cowardice and do nothing, but remember her and a summer of yore.       Senryu   Is verbal parsimony Masquerading as haiku? Stingy poetry     Pale moonlight— Are lilies in garden ponds Ghosts of sailors past?     The depraved rose That shines on a man’s lapel Is cast off’s at dawn.     Rhapsody in July   The summer morning’s breeze is cooling and the sun warms my face—later in the day it will be the enemy and fiercely burn the landscape to wilts and gasps. The air is clear—I can see forever or to where the last mountain is fuzzy blue and the abstract world begins, a place I can construct from my own thoughts A friend sent me an email from Bombay where the city waits for the monsoon—it is late this year, he says, but he walks around with a big black umbrella just in case. If I stay on the fuzzy mountain will I see another fuzzy? one, and another until I come back to the beginning which is not where I was born, and long before the momentary glare of joined up humanity in the heat of a night hotter than Bombay before rain, and mournful and gloomy as October rain. A startled rabbits jumps, flees along a field— escape is its only defense; the origin of the species, what do I know, so I let my own speculation escape. How naive I am—the rabbit didn’t flee because of me, I look up and see a beautiful eagle soar among silk thin clouds that look like shrouds for the rich and trendy to die in. And by the sunny wall old women dressed in black sit and knit— they come alive and thrive when someone dies, when the devil walks past them he carefully hides his limp. And so do I—tucking my cane under my arm, like a parade officer, I wish them a jolly good morning and lift my feet well above ground; wingless carrions, be gone.   Senryu An Agnostic’s nightmare Wakes him up every night— He dreams god exists.     Tanka   For those who are dead The planet doesn’t exist And it never did Must we for that reason think Life is a lone planet’s dream?     Writers and poets Think they can be immortal By ink, a pen— But everything ever written Will rot as autumn leaves do.     Free Verse   France is more than Paris   This dark, unfriendly French provincial town, only, a pizza parlour open, run by a gloomy, unshaven person who looked like a reluctant refugee from Kosovo I wouldn’t like to stay down-wind from. Everything made of plastic— tables, chairs that once had been white, under the counter rested pieces of pizzas that were going cold, I had two pieces— one with salami, the other with tuna, washed down with soft drinks. Finished the meal—the man looked at me as if saying: ”What are you still doing here?" I left. Turned, looked into dirty windows, and thought, If this is hell, I better start saying my prayers now.     Autumnal Aura   The fall month of October, in upper Algarve, is still warm but with cooling evenings and sunlight begins to fade earlier every day. The sky is still blue, if paler than yesterday’s and has white strands of clouds near its horizon. Windless is this day but birds on the roof, have left their nests—flown south, Africa I think, for a few month. They will be back in March have their chicks and make a lot of noise. The man from the forest has delivered winter wood—wrote him a check, gave him a whisky; so I’m ready for winter but secretly wish these peaceful days will stretch well into November.     A Housewife in Alexandria   The woman in Alexandria Egypt in her black chador which mercifully hides a thin, body, lines up outside a bakery—she has walked six miles to buy bread for the day. Her body could have fitted a Dior’s creation snugly but as it is, she has to haste home and feed her children. She has been to the fruit market too where rib cage showing mules with open sores wait, their starvation has lasted so long that they are no longer hungry but eat when fed. A rich woman, who has never felt the pang of hunger, tells off mule drivers for not taking care of their beasts and dispenses salve on the animals’ sores. The woman, with a model’s body, is poor and blind to this—empathy with animals is for the wealthy, those with time to care.     Alexandrian’s docks and Flies   Butterflies, the insect, often appear in poetry flies are black and grey—sometimes blue and bloody annoying, that is why no poet writes and extols the virtue of the common house fly. But one day a fly landed on my nose looked at me with eyes that held intellectual thoughts— it spoke to me but I could not hear and I’m sure it was an appeal to understand its predicament. And I said to the fly, before the vibration of my nose scared it away: “all you have to do is to not bother me and I will not try to swat you.” The fly smirked sarcastically and said: “Why do you go mad when I circle the lamplight and climb on your walls that really need a lick of paint?"     ...A Man’s Alexandria   A woman came into the living room looking sideways— she brought ice cold beer and snacks, Alexandria— this was a modern Egyptian—his wife’s face not covered by a veil; the skin of her face was pock marked. I heard voices in the kitchen—it was of his daughters but I never saw them, and that was ok, I do not know how to talk to children. When we left the house they all had disappeared into grey shadows, my Egyptian friend shouted orders to no one in particular. Nightclub and belly dancing— my friend disappeared with one of them, I had been the stooge, but all bills had been paid, so ok. Walked back to my ship alone, packs of docks along the docks didn’t bother me; I had met a culture I didn’t understand— my Egyptian friend said that he didn’t have any children since he didn’t have sons.     An Alexandrian Dog   It took a long time to unload our cargo of grain. Each sack was marked,  “Gift from USA” so the grain had to be poured into jute sacks and that took time. The American bags were made into children’s shorts and underwear. Alexandria was not teetotal and every night I walked to a dockside bar followed by a dog that had got the idea it was protecting me. The big dog that guards by the gate didn’t care to chase it away. On my way back to the ship, a bit more unsteady now the dog led me back to my ship. I fed the dog and it ate without haste. The charade with the bags ended and we had to leave, a howling dog by the dockside. We’re both victim of a system we could not change.     Unheard Music (Mozart)   The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves like they are playing piano that produces music I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no sense so I try to stop by holding them still with the fingers on my right hand. I sit like a vicar contemplating the Sunday sermon—a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of water and a pill—fingers rest, but I would liked to have heard the music they played—for all I know it could have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and tries through me, to play his latest masterpiece.     Five Fishes   The sea is turquoise— ships are white as summer clouds. On the dock headless dolphins lie side by side and there is music in the air. Children have fun sliding on the deep, dark blood. Shouting buyers and sellers, listen to the great cacophony of humanity. Bless this day...this moment, god is good—here is food for all.     Reverie   Dreams have always been vital to me— they have been a wing to fly on for my consciousness, but lately there have been few dreams and when I dream it is about places I have been to in other thoughts, meeting people and seeing a nature that is interior where the landscape it thorny and cannot be shared with others. There is strangeness to see friends that do not exist, familiar faces forever young—they will just be there and not tell me what to do, a burden one has to tolerate in conscious life. My phone doesn’t ring although I’ve a funny, musical ringer tone. By the lake of wonder virtual friends silently gather, look at me as to say: “When are you going to be our real friend?” But I will not leave before I feel the joy of embracing you again, when you stroke my vanishing hair and tell me that you love me