The Poetry Of.
Jan Oskar Hansen...................
What Difference a Car Makes
Where antique moonlight is swathed around
ancient olive trees, she sat, the haunted old
woman, so gripped by a vast melancholy that
dogs howled when she came near.
She had been so proud and beautiful, but not,
perhaps, attractive enough; never took the bus to
town, only private cars would do, gave herself
for ride in shiny black Mercedes.
The cruelty of old age, it's been ten years now
since anyone gave her a lift, a Honda van, and
when she refused to kiss the overall clad driver,
he had told her to get out
These regrets burdening her sad heart, it was her
mother who had said she was too good for yokel.
Chilly night, she was so tired; her last ride, days
later, was in a shiny black Mercedes.
Tommy Steele and Parkgate
Parkgate, on the Wirral, I remember well, one could see
Wales, in the haze, a cross the bay, sheep and closed-
down factories. Cute fishing boat s with brown sail used
to dock here selling fresh shrimps, but the tide left one
day and didn't come back; they can dredge, no point
though, there aren't any shrimps left in the sea. I saw
this man dressed in yellow leaning against a red Jaguar,
looked prosperous, perhaps he was the lord mayor of
Hardcastle? There is a name that keeps enter my mind,
who is Tommy Steele, didn't he used to be a singer?
Two ice-cream parlours Parkgate had, a line of people
outside one them the other was empty; me, a defender
of lost causes, walked into the deserted one, asked for
two scoops of strawberry ice-cream, too late, bile had
destroyed him and the ice was rock hard, a scoop fell
off and rolled on the floor, picking up fluff and dust.
There was a retirement home as well, asked for a place,
but as usual I was too late, the man in with the jaguar
lives there now, I live very far away and see Parkgate
in a mist of erratic memories; so who is Tommy Steele?
I'm Not Guilty
I shot a horse, once, as it stopped grazing, wasn't
afraid of me; I had fed it slices of bread, pressed
the rifle against its temple and squeezed. I had to
do it the farmer, my boss, didn't want old horses
on his land, I was a hired hand. I'm blameless.
If you say I didn't have to obey such an order it's
because you have never been unemployed you
don't know how it feels like to beg for money to
feed your family, burgers, fries and milk shakes
The horse had brown eyes and before it sank into
a heap of Italian salami it looked at me with
sadness, that did me in. I became a heavy drinker
prone to tears when telling animal stories. Wait!
Hold on a bit: "Is Italian salami made of horse
meat?" "Yes, and so is spaghetti Bolognese, but
I don't care about your diet." "How could you let
me eat salami and not telling me it was made of
horse flesh?" "Look it's about my pain, not yours"
