Jan Oskar Hansen, PT

 

Free Verse   Family Tree (working class)   The branches of  my Family Tree go back several generations of factory workers, bakers, smithies and farmhands, but there is not even a ruddy alcoholic to liven up the endless monotony of working class dreary ordinariness, this awful blandness. Would it not be nice if one of them had been a killer— hanged—a rebel against an unjust society. ...Or a thief who stole from the rich and gave the loot to the poor. My great, great, grandfather was a rouge—no he was a saddle maker…and his wife was a seamstress, not a famous courtesan, who had kings begging for more! I´m a member of a boring dynasty who lived and loved harming no one...surviving and working their butts off... doing boring things. And that is way I´m proud of them, because they are the true keepers of a civilized society. My only consolation is that mother knew Willy Brant.     Church Bells   I lived in a charming English village, near an ancient church; every Sunday morning on my only day off, the bloody bells chimed. Once I thought I saw a woman cycling to mass in the mist, and it wasn´t Germaine Greer. When Muslims ruled Andalusia, they tolerated Christians, but a poet of that time—Ibn Baqi... circa 1059 1112, wished they wouldn´t clang the bells so hard waking him up when the air was cool... and his sleep so sweet—then his Christian mistress had to get up and go to mass. So far nothing has changed, dear Ibn Baqi, the bells keep on tolling.     The Daughter   The daughter, of a police officer who wore black riding boots, was shining them—a call came—he had been killed.... a traffic accident. She put polish and brush into a cupboard— no longer the slave of a father who used boots as mirrors in the morning when shaving, and if he couldn´t see clearly he beat her with a leather strap. Father in his coffin— she polished his medals; he looked grand in death. But for the daughter, of the officer each medal reminded her of the leather lash.     Ageing   I saw a picture of him in the newspaper...the famous writer at seventy-two, and thought: my god, he looks old; yet I´m older than him. He was going on about his illnesses like they should be badges of honour. I look like him, but my mirror says I look not a day over fifty-two which is a blessing. We are all narcissists at heart and stuck with an image of ourselves that is untrue, but life cannot rob us of our delusion. A warning though, do not smile to women who have not got a wrinkle or two and need to dye their hair. The boy was running through a dark tunnel hoping to see light... there is supposed to be a light at the end of every dark tunnel. The man got hold of the boy´s jacket... insistently called him a sweet boy.... the boy was defenseless... the man said all I want to do is love you... the boy was throwing up blood... the man had his way, unbearable... but the boy wrestled lose... At Sunday school the boy saw the man, a priest, preaching about sin and forgiveness. Frightened and sore from his assault the boy said nothing. Ten years later the boy, now a young man, saw the priest leave a bus and he beat the daylight out of him. Blood on the pavement— the young man got two years for assaulting a priest— no one asked him…why? Forty years later the truth about the man came out... the rape victim was given a monetary compensation and the trivial word…closure. When told the story I was irked: the priest was promoted to bishop and received a fat pension. I know when his obituary is written his perversity will be ignored, his work among the poor will be accentuated, and his profile, in stone, will overlook a kindergarten.