The Poetry Of.
Jan Oskar Hansen...................
Fragile Warriors
Under the glass counter an army of soft drinks dressed
in green, yellow and navy blue, stood facing a smaller,
but more potent army of bottled beer.
In the corner, looking splendid and golden topped,
a few bottles of alcohol-free lager stood somewhat
hesitant, didn't quite know which army to join being
met with contempt by both sides.
A giant, pale blue one litre bottle of water that could
quench anyone's thirst a hot summer's day, suggested
the Alcohol-free should be arbiters if it came
to war; this gave the hybrids a sense of purpose and they
glowed in self importance under fluorescent light.
Not that anyone takes note of what peacemakers say, till
it's a stall-mate and armies need a break to rearm and
enlist more non-returnable
Thirsty Cars
Those steep, tiring hills going home, I had been in town
bought a new kitchen sink, the second one in forty years,
nothing lasts, that's how traders make their ill-gotten
gains. My car was exhausted trailing smoke, to lighten
its burden I alighted walked in front as it followed me
slowly. On a flat stretch it teasingly overtook and drove
in front of me and down a track into a deep ravine where
feral donkeys live and run unlicensed garages I wasn't in
the mood to play "follow the leader," so I walked home
past wayside bars where cars guzzled Brazilian sugar cane
alcohol, and played with their indicators, I ignored this
depravity and hasted away. Midnight, when my car pulled
up outside, it had lost the kitchen-sink and was splattered
in manure of the long eared members of the horse family.
Beer Makers
The old brewery, ochre and dead windows,
appeared as a benignly if neglected castle
in afternoon's radiance.
Inside it reeked of a boozer early
in the morning; butts on floors and the echo
of drunken voices.
Sun raked, black letters on top of the building
proudly proclaimed: "Portugal's best Beer."
That was long ago before mass tourism,
EU, Carlsberg Lager and Newcastle Brown.
On the top floor, where offices used to be,
five starved cats sat and waited for yesterday,
they were the offspring of fat cats which,
had lived high on brewers and spilt ale.
Hopeless dreamers, licking matted fur,
lost in melancholy; hepatic eyes of yesterday.
A Byway
The orange grove was like a forest, trees full
of fruit standing close together I couldn't gaze
through, look west to see the winter ocean.
Further on I came to an olive grove, more space
amongst trees that looked serious like elderly,
sagacious men contemplating a vanishing future,
while terracotta wooly sheep grazed on fresh
green grass; and I could see a sliver of the sea,
glittering as a pearl-necklace thrown away by
an intemperate wife of a Russian oligarch.
Timeless she is teasing me with her shimmer,
I thought of racing down to the coast join a ship
and sense the heave of the seas under my feet
once more Ah, but not today, if ever.
The sheep stopped grazing looked my way,
chewed slowly, it was getting colder and they
had flecks of sunlight in their eyes.
