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Poetry Collection of Jan Oskar Hansen | Poem

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   The world, despite little wars, has 
   never been as peaceful as it is today. 
   Now a new president is sorting out 
   whose the enemy and whose get 
   to wear a white hat. Appealing to 
   peoples baser instinct, a promise 
   of less tax and an ample supply of 
   cheap liquid gold. Drawbridges up 
   …Fortress USA. 

   Meanwhile the Palestinians keep 
   on dying in an enclave only fit for 
   goats. Undemocratic regimes are 
   shored up as long as they have got 
   what matters most- oil and vaguely 
   promise orderly reform. The planet 
   is coughing, so what, let's together 
   float down the river of oblivion, 
   the next generation isn't us. 


   I detested the smell on mother's clothes when 
   she came home from late shift at the canning 
   factory, brother's sweaty reek when arriving 
   from the building site, sister's shop girl scent 
   and father's odour when coming in after boozing 
   with his mates in the basement, drinking a brew 
   made of sugar, yeast, potato peel and prunes. 
   My folks were at ease being working class, 
   didn't dream of a better life and enjoyed Sundays.
   Their docility and acceptance made me angry, 
   they feared my scalding tongue and tantrums. 
   Left home early but couldn't escape their imprint 
   on my mind and that's why my home stinks of 
   stale tuna fish tomcat piss , cheap after shave 
   lotion and empty beer bottles. Now that I'm old 
   they are shadows, whispering voices, getting 
   louder and keeping me awake at night; they can't 
   forgive me for not loving them. 

The Assessment  /  Epigram   /  Lisbon Winter Night



AnAlgarvian Landscape


JanOskar Hansen "In The City"

Palestine, plus

to chapbook review

Jan readsexcerts from Cracks in the Mirror on youTube

Review ofJan's book

poet Jan

Jan Oskar Hansen is Norwegian and ex-merchant navy.

his blog


The Assessment

My copypen fell to the floor I bent down to pick it up
now Ifeel dizzy. I came to this country, decades ago
towrite, many pens have fallen on the floor- although
I do notwrite with a pen but use a word processor.
A pen isa crutch and to make droll shapes on sheets
ofpaper; a thousands sheets filled with doodles while
waitingto write something sensible on the processor;
a madpublisher has shown interest in them.
Twentyyears feels a very long time, twenty more and
I'll beninety bet I will not be able to pick up a pen from
thefloor then. Now I wake up in the night and a steady
humtells me I have wasted my time scrawling, a book
ofscribble how is that for an epitaph?



Alldolls are equal, but some are

betterdressed than others; yet

they allend up- utterly forlorn-

in acardboard box, on the attic. 


LisbonWinter Night

>Frommy hotel window I see, deep down
in thecity's canyon, a cobble stone river
cars aremoored to its banks; from under
one acat runs across to the bins, a squeal
as itcatches its wretched prey.

>Fromhe opposite edifice a few shards
of lightgive succour to the dying and to
thosewho cannot sleep that radiance too
fades asnight progresses towards dawn,
what'sleft is the hum of enduring silence.

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