The Poetry Of.
Jan Oskar Hansen...................
The Peace.
The upper village is morning cold, chimney smoke
rise in still air; dogs, that sleeps in sheds, sit now by
the east wall huddled together facing the sun, see
me and there are greetings, a slow wagging of tails.
The air is so incredibly clear I can see the houses on
the slopes of the hazy mountain where dogs sit and
face the same sun; I know I'm witnessing a flick of
eternity when other people and their dogs will walk
across the landscape and have the same dreams and
hopes as we had. Pedro is outside smoking, his wife
won't let him smoke inside, turns the curtain yellow,
she says, the tobacco aroma drifts my way, wonderful.
A peaceful pocket on earth, my valley is; but I do fear
an easterly wind might bring the smell of cordite.
The Tears.
It rained when she drove off, she was crying
but wouldn't tell me why; house cold and
the day darkened, evening came early not as
twilight, just murky. Bad light couldn't escape
by reading a Mike Spillane novel, just sat there
wondered why she had cried, a long drive in
the rain, did she sense foreboding I was too
numb to feel? The flowers on table cloth are
black roses now and the outdoor lamp swings
in the wind
Romance on the high seas.
Met her in an ice cream parlour at the beginning
of Saint Laurent's street, Montreal, where houses
were modest and people spoke French, yes, it was
a fine day in May. Her name was Lisa and she had
a mystic smile; we went for a walk, soon our hands
were entwined. Saint Laurent is a long street, and we
strolled to where houses are big, have shards of glass
on top of walls, "Beware of the dog" on iron gates;
farmland, trees, grazing cattle and cute horses; then we
ambled back to the part where they spoke French.
In a gift shop I bought her a humble ring, it was small,
but she put it on her little finger, we agreed to meet
again when my ship returned, in a month or so, alas,
the ship sailed for Europe and it was summer time.
Twenty years is a long time, many people had died
the world was renewing itself, I was now master of
my own ship and finally docked in Montreal. Walked
the long street again, so much had changed, modest
houses gone, office blocks instead, the great homes,
further up were now boardinghouses, full of people
trying to learn English, and the farm land, exclusive
suburbia, two cars in each driveway. Asked a lady,
out walking her dog, if she was Lisa, surprised, she
said yes and I told her my story, she wore a ring on
her little finger, perhaps it was mine. "Lovely tale"
she said," but I'm not the Lisa you knew." Wished
me luck, walked her way. Four golden rings on a blue
uniform, futile now that I shan't see Lisa again.
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