Jan Oskar Hansen, PT

 

 

Free Verse   Winter Rain   This morning A wheelbarrow of water Red petals swim around Finally, I have an aquarium. Summer wine long since gone Sunlight and rain In earnest competition Deep shadows Dark clouds sail northwesterly Take October’s dregs with you   Winter Night   I sit in darkness The wood in the hearth burns Flame’s core is blue And looks cold as diamonds Intense the aroma of rage. Glowing ember When night yields to dawn... ash Quiet as a shadow Blows like snow in winter breeze In the forest ravens crow.     Wintery Blush   The street is cold—snow has yet to fall, asphalt frozen pearly grey and pavement tiles cracked underfoot. The sky is limp clear, the sun is but a decoration, a miserable yellow balloon not taken down after the New Year party. From the insipid sky hang icicles the sun can’t thaw, but solar reflections make them look like sparkling diamonds— a frozen painting of isolated beauty, of an unbridgeable haughtiness that knows of no compassion. White clouds gather looking like a flock of polar bears waking over their future demise. But their warm breaths thaw the icicles that fall like snow covering the land; and my untidy garden appears equal to the neat ones.     Tenderness   Her gentle shadow, modest as she was, walked in front of her. And now that she has gone her shadow lives in my mind as a soothing whisper.     Epiphany   How soft rain is I hold out my hands Cupped like a holy grail I wash my face And am rejuvenated My mind is clear Epiphany And slowly rain falls I understand Time is no longer endless.     Old Friends   My friends and I are elderly men with protruding bellies— we drink whisky in the evening and talk about the old days, and of friends that went before us. We feel slightly envious of them, as we have yet a death to come. The war in Afghanistan has lasted ten years and might last ten more years—this makes us smile for we know wars are endless, like a bad back we have to learn to live with. Little has changed in our life time, avarice and lust for power rule ok. In the bar we talk about football, a game of utter futility. When we leave and see a beautiful girl walking past we don’t bother to turn around for a second glance, what’s the point. When a friend dies, usually of cancer or heart attack, we go to his funeral, drink whisky, shudder and talk about him, sport and the crazy world we live in.     An Elderly Dog   The sun is coming down hard—the dog sleeps in the shadow on the terrace. I sit indoors and try to play the mandolin. Sweaty palms, no good. The dog comes to the doorway barks. I put the mandolin on a chair, dog goes back to sleep. The winter had been long; I had looked forward to summer, but this was too much. We, the dog and I, used to go to the beach, but dogs aren’t allowed there anymore and I’m too fucking old. I pick up the mandolin smash it against the living room wall, a picture of me in uniform falls down, broken glass everywhere. “Now, see what you have done,” I shout to the dog, but the old cur doesn’t batter an eyelid.     Dark Humour   Christmas is out Lest we upset someone Of another faith So let’s call it something else Is Hanukah ok? Or will the Muslims In fanatical remonstration Set off a car bomb In the town of Allahabad That kills men in a mosque?     Sartorial   Tried on a striped Blue suit It made me look like A fat zebra Asked the shop girl If they had a mirror One that could transform me Into my conceited Self image She said sorry, but no Bought a bigger suit Pearly black hides the fat Off the rack, Just like that White turtle neck jumper A Mercedes badge Around my neck God! I look a stylish man.     Chocolate Habit   The ferry from England to Norway— I sit in the bar, drinking a cola. Then, in the duty free shop, I buy big bars of chocolate for family and friends. One of the bars has a mixture of nuts in it, I take a bite but end up eating the whole bar. This makes me ill—I threw up. The madness of me drinking coke and eating chocolate. Back in the bar I have a whisky followed by more. About three in the morning I wake up beside a Valkyrian, since she is sleeping on her side away from me I don’t see her face. Back in my own cabin I shower, sleep a few hours and get up about nine for breakfast. A hefty woman sits alone at a table, she smiles as though she knows me. I flee to my own cabin, vowing never again will I eat chocolate and drink cola.     The Smoldering   The old man is dead fell off his kitchen chair. Burning bright, in a cosmic, sooty night, while heartless stars look on. Screams didn’t stop, ambulance lost in darkness. Finally, doctor came, the wail of agony subsided. No time for ethical questions. Afternoon burial, the sun hot as a cannon ball dropping into the sea. Eerie silence in the village, but for echoes of suffering.   A Naruto   I try to get up, they are all over me, must be dwarfs. This mysterious house at the edge of a forest, how did I get here? Amongst depraved people born to be sinful. They strike like animals, featherlike as small children Night alleyways, dark laughter follow me, stilettos and moonlight. I run on sand, see a ship, behind me church bells toll.     A Love Story   I looked down into the open grave— the coffin was white until someone threw a handful dry soil on its lid. Unreal, it had nothing to do with me; we had met forty years ago and she left saying she didn’t love me anymore. I turned away, looked towards the bay; it was transparent, I could see fish swim about, on its floor crabs, lobster that had escaped the net, and sea plants swaying in the mild current. A poem floated up to the surface of my consciousness— I shook my head...this is unseemly, threw the poem back into a dreamy mere, like an angler who has caught a very small trout, saw it float in the dark water of my restless mind. Her husband was crying. I embraced him, “You loved her too,” he whispered. I looked to the bay...it was blue and I couldn’t see clearly anymore... I was no longer sure whether I had loved her as much as he had.     Ports Remembered   Puerto Limon, a seaside town in Costa Rica, a welcoming place. Near the docks, a beautiful park, families promenaded here Beautiful girls, ready to court and be married, where called back to the family safe fold, when we came stumbling along Finding places, where virginity had no meaning. Girls’ dark eyes, Inquisitive and breathless, saw us. And we…shyly… saw them Rum and coke, blaring jukebox music love cheaply bought. But it wasn’t what we wanted. A seaman’s heart is full of romance.     The Garbage Collector   He had horse and cart made a living collecting trash, bringing it to the tip. He was often inebriated, but the horse knew the route. He was temperate when April came around and the sun smiled. He planted flowers in his yard and in June it was Paradise. It didn’t last long, he had eleven children, eager, running feet. Blooms trampled to the ground, endless his quest for beauty.     The Thinker   On the small cargo ship, anchored in the bay, her cook has just finished serving breakfast (bacon and eggs) and now he is on her rusty deck drinking a mug of coffee. The sea in the bay is dotted with flakes of silver and yesterday’s storm is a forgotten memory. The ship has been anchored in the bay for a week waiting for a berth, the cook is running out of fresh food and the crew is in a bad mood. He thinks of China— once he had worked at a shoe factory, but it closed down moving the production to China; so had most other industries too, so he was lucky to have a job. He had been to Shanghai once—there he saw a four story public toilet and it was full of defecating people. Well, that’s one thing they can’t export; or perhaps they can? Turning the waste into dry pellets—put it in cute green bags and sell it. Good for westerly roses. The cook sighs and goes back into the heat of the galley     An April Day   I remember a spring breeze Followed a track, Only visible from space. Found a tiny horse shoe Hung it on my wall. The breeze caressed My tired face and I thought This moment I must cherish. Greening trees and flowers Undiscovered. How lucky to have seen this. My solitude was not in vain.     Royal Wedding   William and Kate Is love sweeter than wine Wedding Bliss The people nod and smile Admire Kate’s wedding gown The great and the good In their best finery that day Will fill the cathedral While you will be stood outside Be in awe of ladies' hats Blessed couple Redundancy won’t touch them Thanks to you and me While you cry in your bitter They’ll swim in the blue lagoon.     To Verbalize in a Void   Tired of talking to god who never answers and watching silence drip like tears from the ceiling beams, I walked down to the new café, the one at the fruit market, for a cup of coffee. A profound philosophical conversation ensued. The young girl, who served me asked if I wanted cream in my brew; after a brief pause, I said no. The slight pause was caused by a sudden need to tell her I have diabetes and full fat cream is bad for me, but since this information had little to do with her question I let it pass. That was the extent of my tête-à-tête for the day; it was fulfilling because, a question had been raised and a comprehensive response had been given.     Mortality   The river near, the houses, runs full like an infection flowing to the ocean spreading mortal disease. No fish, like a jubilant trout, swims here— only green poisonous algae and clomps of the unspeakable that bring cries on parched lips in nights that has no dawn. When the river, near the houses, is dry, it is skeletal, a dry slash in the moon lit landscape of trepidation. The intrepid maneuvers between hip bones and skulls, and ribcages crack like pistol shots. But when summer is over, downpour of life lived fills it with the debris of deep regrets. Oh, this infected vein of the earth, is there no cure that can make the river clean before meeting the sea?     WikiLeaks   My neighbour has started his tractor—diesel fume wafts through the open kitchen window. On his way to plough the field across the road, dark furrows in damp soil, birds sit in trees reading the upturned soil for tidbits. My neighbour doesn’t read, has no computer, and doesn’t give a damn about wikileaks; evenings he and his wife sit in their kitchen and watch soaps— news is too boring. Me, I’m amazed at the stupidity of the unscripted soap news— this struggle for dominance, making friends with vile dictators in the hope of landing a fat military contract, selling hardware and having a base so an eye can be kept on the opposition. Winner and losers in a mortal dance embraced by phony friendship. And when a tyrant goes against our interest we kill him off and look for one who can do our bidding. What the people want is banalities such as peace and democracy, but that’s too bothersome. My neighbour knows this and lets the birds fight amongst themselves over title tattles and succulent worms.     My Island   The island has a river; beyond the river, a dark forest sings when the wind blows around the mountain in the middle of the island. I once climbed up to its summit in the hope of seeing the mainland, dreamt of escaping my confinement, but the glittering sea blinded me. One Sunday I saw nuns rowing in the bay; they stopped, lifted up and rested the oars, I saw drops, as priceless pearls, dripping back into the green sea. Mist came and obscured them, I also saw the boat as a shimmer above water. The nuns were never found; a statue to honour them was erected. Every year a bishop comes and blesses the inlet. He knows as I do, a wish had been fulfilled. He cannot speak of this; nor can I. And as always the dark forest sings when the wind blows around the mountain.     The Problem of Europe   There is an echo that rumbles in my liberal mind regarding the Moslem population in Europe. Yes, we must accept them— they are citizens, but they do live in Europe now which has a different culture than the Moslem world. But it appears to me they want to change Europe to become like them. The first generations of Moslems who came here were happy to escape poverty and repressing regimes, however, it is the new generation who feel they are not being accepted…but they are. Europe needs the energy and thrift the Moslem youth brings as long as they don’t try to fit Europe into an unreal sharia state that never existed other than in the mind of zealots. So my liberal mind is confused, I will bend for their religious needs, but I will not live their repressed life, to be straitjacketed into religious rules I find objectionable.     Jan Oskar Hansen: Tanka Jan Oskar Hansen: Political Humor