Jan Oskar Hansen, PT

 

Tanka   To carve a mountain Out of an empty heaven Is a poet’s fate With a pen as a chisel The cadence rings in his dreams     Free Verse   The Emerald Isle   Sailing into Cork I saw green hills, the sea was jade— I understood why Ireland was called the emerald island. On the sheer slopes sheep grazed; chancers I thought the slightest slip and they would fall into verdant waters. Why not graze on the plateau—be happy with modest fodder if not as succulent as grass too unsafe to get at? And sheep fall—sometimes they are rescued by a passing voracious fishing vessels, and end up as Irish stew. Cork was a pretty port—it had a no hasty feel back then, it became a busy place ignoring the hazardous slopes, but holy is economic progress, lush living for everyone.     Egalite   In France The cleaning lady Treats me like an equal In Britain She calls me Sir     The Equine and May   On the flatland was a field so green—it had cute blue flowers that tend to disappear at the end of spring. The pasture was framed by purple poppies and no sheep around, those infernal eating machines that graze meadows into wasteland. I Stood in the middle of this succulence, the aroma was overwhelming... I swooned. I sank down on my knees, buried my face in the moist, wondrousness and wished I were a stallion.     Island Paradise   What do you do if you live on a tiny tropic island when boredom rears its ugly little head? Alright, you have got the palms, lush vegetation and a blue lagoon and colurful fishes. They are there dripping beauty when you get up and are still there when you go to bed. And if you climb the island mountain top, most of them have one; you are ringed by white sea. No airport, you can’t take a bus to the nearest country for a day trip, no you are stuck amongst oppressive beauty and the ferry boat is not due before next year. No Escape pal! New York, Paris— and Paris a final dream, lie edgy in your hammock and dream of yesterday.     Soft Coat   On the rapid asphalt road bloody fur, a rabbit caught in the glaring headlight of a speeding car. Poor creature don’t cross the road at night, do not cross it at all unless you’re an angel and can fly. No one loves a rabbit less it is a child’s pet and lives in a tiny cage. Run free rabbit, run on the forest floor.     Limelight   Portugal—September, the tourist season was over. I drove on a long, straight country road... when I stopped for a pee, I looked around—no one about. Then as on cue, the road was full, buses, tractors, cyclists, joggers, a military band, marching scouts, a Polish cavalry charge and striking miners walking to Lisbon to protest against low wages. I could do nought—I pretended I was studying cloud formations. Then when I was done the road was empty again as summer dust settled for a long, cooling fall.     ...As It Must   My uncle John came to visit me, at a farm I was sent to when mother had go to a sanatorium far way. He knew the farmer couple and stayed for a week helping out. It was his summer holiday and he had to go back to work at the fish factory in town. I loved my uncle— he was strong and told stories in the evening, from his life as an adventurer in Africa and America. I knew the tales were not true, but I liked to hear them anyway. The day he had to leave, on the afternoon bus, I fled to the outer fields where sheep grazed, sat behind a stone hedge, and thought life was sad. He knew why I was hiding and came up to me, spoke, and ruffled my hair, promising to come next year if things went well. I saw him board the bus... I waved—he waved back and life continued as it must.     Reflection in Phial   I look at my hands—they are brown as a farmer’s; this pleases me, although I have no tractor or a mule. A workman’s sturdy hands—all socialists should have hands that have harvested carrots. I flex the muscles of my upper arms, see the faint movement like mice moving under thawing spring snow. Glorious vanity to \think I used to do 100 press ups a day only because I lived in fear of being a weakling. I think of sex, and sadly conclude I never was a great lover, when the act was done, I reached for the book I was reading. Yet, women liked me because I was not pretentious— they also tried to domesticate me as I had an affinity to walk my own way and often ended up in seedy bars. T he squalid side of life has always mystified me— why does a person chose a road that leads to ruin and hardship? I have always been lazy—strenuous effort will not touch me. But I would like to have my muscular arms back....Please! *phial - a small bottle that contains a drug (especially a sealed sterile container for injection by needle).     Fireflies of Love   Summer by the river of temptation— vinyl records and turntable gramophone... songs about love and longings. Naive lyric, but for our young hearts it had a deep meaning. Passion like fireflies filled the air, the aroma of grass and the scent of green leaves, enchantment and adoration in the air. Nothing is like first love—alas, it never lasts and like fireflies, disappears at first light. Liver spotted hands turn the pages of memories, shiny leaves of youth clear as the river and undimmed by middle-aged cynicism.     Silk Road   Farghana Valley— the splendour of a mythical dream. The fabled silk route snaked its way through here, bringing new cultures, silk and jade, and no drones filled the night sky with fear. In this valley of ancient dreams beautiful horses made the landscape enchanting. Civilizations come and go; yes, religions too. They will claim to have the key to the ultimate truth. Our time also will be cosmic dust in history of man, but the valley of Farghana shall endure.   The Fergana Valley or Farghana Valley (Uzbek: Farg‘ona vodiysi, Kyrgyz: Фергана өрөөнү [ferʁana œrœːny], Tajik: водии Фaрғонa, Russian: Ферганская долина, Persian: وادی فرغانه) is a region in Central Asia spreading across eastern Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. Divided across three subdivisions of the former Soviet Union, the valley is ethnically diverse, and in the early 21st century was the scene of ethnic conflict. A large triangular valley in what is an often dry part of Central Asia, the Fergana owes its fertility to two rivers, the Naryn and the Kara Darya, which run from the east, joining near Namangan, forming the Syr Darya river. The valley's history stretches back over 2300 years, when its population was conquered by Greco-Bactrian invaders from the west. Chinese chroniclers date its towns to more than 2100 years ago, as a path between Greek, Chinese, Bactrian and Parthian civilizations (Wikipedia).     The Religious Zealot   He rose from the sea On the third day of his death A murmuring night A haar, breathing to the shores Of the Bay of Bengal Silent sea mist A whispering: Bora, Bora my love Forget me not. The saint’s longing for purity Drowned in terror and blood.     Just an Idle Poem   A cargo plane, loaded with white rabbits, got lost in a heavenly storm and landed on the moon, the pilot declared himself king. The second pilot would have none of it, slew the pilot, declared a republic, with him as president, and freed the rabbits. When all the little bottles of booze planes carry for hospitality, were empty the president got depressed and threw himself; off the moon, was sucked up into a black hole and woke up on the Australian outback and got a job as a camel rider with an all consuming hatred for airline pilots. The moon rabbits, however, thrived—lived on nourishing dust and moon dew. But slowly they changed appearance and became moonbeams that lit up parks, summer nights, and make lovers swoon. A cynic may say they became inconsequent specters, useless as a poem written for pleasure and lacking in moral judiciousness.     The Dream Collector   The traffic light was on red when I dreamt of an island in the Saragossa Sea. No one has yet discovered it; those who do, will never recover. A happy place, how should I know? Restless are the ghosts of sailors walking on the strand between sea and land looking for their ship that tugs at the anchor in some hidden bay. Arthritic fingers flex, hoisting sails... Just once more my dear, let me see you under full sails, swiftness on the seas... Now, my eyes can’t see for the infernal fog, but once I was the master and you obeyed my commands. The traffic light has turned green—it wasn’t the sea I saw. Blaring horns, oh, my darling just once more...     In from the cold   They have not chosen me— they have chosen salami for breakfast, only because I’m a thin sliced chicken breast. Have they no taste? Bread crumbs and spies sitting outside eating salami on crusty bread, miles away from real butter. While just around the corner there is a deli selling salt beef and pickles. Have they no taste?     The Mountain   The pebble I picked up by the shore is a perfectly formed mountain, with steep slopes never climbed. No one stood at its summit waving a flag, becoming famous and getting a title. This pebble was once the biggest mountain in the world and the flatland around it was lush with many rivers. Time is a brigand—the mountain began shrinking and a pebble called Mount Everest began growing— it is now a giant amongst tall mountains. The pebble has a hidden memory and cries when it rains. Unknown and unloved it recalls when the tribe, at its foot, prayed to it for a good harvest. How mighty it was back then— when full of ire because it was lonely and cold...to become tall, it shook, sent avalanches of rocks and snow down to the flatland. Terrified people ran for their lives in their rabbit moccasins. Since it has no language and the distance between us is too great, I put the mountain into my pocket where it mingles with loose change and car keys.     A Beautiful Song (Ink Spots*)   “I don’t want to set the world on fire”—what a lovely song. But I’m disturbed by sparrows, sitting in my orange tree and making a racket—so much for bird song. Out on the terrace I stretch out my arms pretending to be an eagle—they fly off. But they soon return realizing I’m not much of an eagle. I throw pebbles at them, terrified miniature mountains that only get to fly when someone, say, me, throws them. I still hear the sparrows sitting in my neighbour’s orange tree, arguing about territories and no-fly-zones. A flurry of angry wings—what is this a civil war? High above in the blue sky,a bald eagle circles: “I don’t want to set the world on fire...”   The *Ink Spots were a popular vocal group in the 1930s and 1940s that helped define the musical genre that led to rhythm and blues and rock and roll, and the subgenre doo-wop. They and the Mills Brothers, another black vocal group of the same period, gained much acceptance in the white community.     Last Request   Before she died, her last wish was to be buried, not cremated—she feared waking up from a deep coma and no one would hear her screams and rescue her from the jaws of inferno. Her husband ignored her want, cremation was more viable, and anyway how was she to know? The crematory attendant was outside smoking a cigarette reflecting on the irony that he had to go outside when bodies were burnt to ash inside. He was startled by a piercing shriek— birds in nearby trees took flight. Must be a hawk killing a starling, he thought. On the branch of an old oak a crow sat in the afternoon light— it looked golden, wore a halo, and had eyes as blue as the ocean.     Trying to Remember   Dawn... from the sea of unconsciousness a tsunami came and flooded the land of consciousness. I walked around the flotsam to see if I could use any of the dazed hazy thoughts. But before I could pick up any interesting ideas, high tide came and washed everything away... it was morning and the phone was ringing. A sense of loss remained... something vital I must try to remember.     Ignored (A seagull story)   The seaside restaurant was busy... everyone was eating lobsters. I tried to catch the waiter's eye... I was ignored and got the feeling I was Invisible, or so small my head didn’t reach over the table. A seagull landed on my table— a beautiful bird...yellow beak and feet, plumage snowy white, its wings light grey/blue, and its eyes were green; it had the aroma of the Pacific Ocean. The waiter came, looked at the bird and asked what it wanted. "Lobster", I said... when the dish came I gave it to the bird. I got up, left and no one tried to stop me.     Would be Thief   I walked into a sweet shop, I love chocolate... the shop was empty—like in a fairytale it was all mine. In the hazy aroma of sweets my mind went blank and my hand was reaching out to grab some Belgian chocolate— it is free, free the devil whispered; this is your chance to get something for free. I chopped my greedy hand off— strawberry juice everywhere. I stood there bleeding... knocked on the counter, a girl came (I think she had been smoking in the back) I asked for plaster, but she didn’t have any; she told me where I could find a pharmacy; I bought a bar of nut chocolate and bonbons.     Storm   Ship bound for Norfolk—empty holds; she was high in the water. A devil of a storm, the winter Atlantic had a fit— took all the lifeboats and railings. ...and the ocean was a mountain landscape. She shook like a dog when the seas crashed on her deck. We knew the sea was not in the mood to take prisoners; sometimes survival is all down to luck. Norfolk looked wonderful in the morning light.     Spring in Afghanistan   Rivers run white and jubilant down ancient gorges... free of winter shackles, there is a whisper of a song. Vales and dales are greening and sweet smell the poppy fields. Outside houses made of mud, in empty paint Cans, flowers grow. Thirst for beauty and peace in an arid land is endless. Killer drones do their dirty works, but they can’t destroy a year’s youth. Women guard their goats—it’s lambing time. Eternal their serenity and hope for a peaceful harvest.     Jan Oskar Hansen, PT—Senryu