Jan Oskar Hansen is a Norwegian poet who lives in Portugal. he
has written a book on collections "Letters From Portugal" , and
a book "La Strada" Lapeing Belfast (will be out soon) he
wrote for many magazines and on the net.
Dawn in Los Angeles
Dawn, in the night bar, we are past talking,
sit inside our own delusion, yet know soon
we'll have to leave, but not yet, the day, out
there is blindingly harsh and noisy.
The new barman; looks green in neon light,
perhaps from March, he doesn't know how
to smile, better not ask. A drinker stuck in
yesterdays' headlines, reads them over and
over again, pale lips move painfully slow
A comedian orders a beer: "my breakfast"
he says, no one laugh. He's a rank amateur.
A sage looks up and utters: "We only need
help twice, when we are born and when we
leave this world. With that silence fall like
a soggy leaf on asphalt, and as we listen to
the hum of the air-condition system, the sage
falls off his bar-stool
"Bulgaria! I'm from Bulgaria he said, the little man
pulling his ties that was yellow with blue tear drops
that endlessly fell, crying for the inconsolable sense
of loss that is the heart of mankind. The immigration
officer wouldn't let him through, you need a valid
passport to walk on holly Nordic soil; he looked
fragile flanked by two huge officers, they thought so
too hadn't handcuffed him. I bought him coffee and
a sandwich, they were waiting for a call from his
embassy, and he told us a story of poverty, leaving his
wife and children behind to work abroad. Call came
he was wanted for murder of his wife, quickly cuffed
and roughly marched out of the airport. Yet, he looked
so frail between the officers when he turned and said
he was innocent I was ready to believe him had he not
stage whispered: "It's a set up, I have been framed."
The Longest Day
Is endlessly grey, the green mountain where
dogs- rejected for not being pure bred- howl
to the godless sky, is obscured by a miasma
of gloom. The lake is filled with the tears of
losing football teams and watchers of soppy
TV, shows, is lazy too, only half submerged
rowing boat makes a portentous presence,
This night won't be silky, the guitarist will
not wear a cape of silvery moonlight when
serenading his lust for love; bright stars
only appear in fairytales and in nurseries,
birdsong is a fading memory. I'll open my
umbrella, walk outside and, if not hit by
lightening, stay there till clouds mortified
part and give the sun a chance to shine.
Among rain dripping leaves
Look tempting to eat
Flown from tropical Panama
Brighten winter days
In the neglected garden
Are for nimble rats.
Sterile as tethered mule
Are pink inside.
Xanthous fluffy bird
Flaps yolk coloured wings
Picks the yellow fruit
Snowdrops are the white
You see in rainbows
Silky rain is the liquid
A morning after rain I fell down a mineshaft
into a maze of tunnels made of melancholic
old man's tear, at the end of a tunnel, a light
so sharp it sapped life's energy and pulled
towards it like a magnet seeking a lose nail,
threw myself into a side tunnel and found
a kaleidoscope of pulsating colours glowing
in perfect harmony, I could understand all.
Climbed up a ladder that had 95 rungs, five
more and I would have ended up in Nirvana.
I had overcome oldness and frailty; nothing
can get me low, I shall go on being grumpy
till I die.