Auckland Poetry.com

October

Woke up with a start, the night was cold
a dream had disturbed my peace;
a black hole in the ground loose soil from
its edges kept falling into its endlessness.

Got up looked out of the window into a street
of pale light, my breath fogged up the glass
I saw a distorted image of my youth;
“How old you are,” it mocked.

I pressed my head against the glass, tried
to make friend with my tormentor; and
behind stillness I heard the hum of
the long sea rippling on nirvana’s strand

twilight invades

the cool silence

with long shadows

in birdsong

I want to go

far away to where

sunlight glows amber on the sea

where children

flash their teeth at sunset

devouring the evening

with laughter.

the sky is so far

and my heart is strung over

so many skies.

Who can offer solace?

or even a pause in the rush

of sensations

tumbling my chest

against an unknown shore

The Jogger

They said he had invented jogging and he was quite
addicted to his invention, ran every afternoon longer
and longer distances; till he dropped dead.
“He had congenital heart disease and would have died
anyway,” the defenders of jogging said.

Sure but that’s not the point he could have died when
copulating, angling, having a splendid meal with wine
or congenial drink with friends in the bar, and not
prancing about in shorts on a cold road alone a chilly
autumnal evening.

O Marmelo (a pear shaped fruit of
the quince, tree can also mean
“Saio de Mulher” Bosom)
Al-Musahfi ca 982
Translated from
old Portuguese by Jan Oskar Hansen

O Marmelo
Is of the colour yellow that of shame
A narcissist’ tunic and it has a musky
Penetrating aroma

As the perfume of once beloved and has
The same force as the heart but has
The colour of one who is in love and
haggard.

Her paleness is but an imprint of my pallor
And my breath has the aroma
Of my woman’s breaths

Fragrant when the fruit is lifted from the branch
Under the brocade of woven leaves, suavely
In my hand I carry it indoors and put it as
A costly treasure, in my alcove

Dressed in grey down which flutters on its
Smooth golden body

And when in my hand, naked sans its shirt-
The colour of narcissism- makes me record
What I can’t express as the heat of my vigor
Fades and drips between my fingers

Tomorrows World

So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.

We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.

This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die

Television

My sister’s was the first in our street to buy TV,
an ugly, shiny mahogany box in the corner, and
since it was early afternoon and no program on,
stood there blinking as having dust in its eye.

Monday, film night on TV, the whole family
was there and neighbours too. Curtains drawn,
even though it was summer and still daylight, we
sat in darkness, in silence caused by our awe.

A Bergman movie, early TV in Norway tended
to take itself serious. I remember the whiteness
of the screen and how it reflected on the faces of
an enchanted audience.

Glistening cars in the rain, where her house once
stood there is now a parking lot; I’m the only one
alive, but every face, that evening, is etched on my
mind. Glass clear in black & white

Birthday

In the doorway of
a restaurant
music plays behind me,
dancers move to
a Finnish tango.

Glitter on the ceiling,
happy faces,
a few drinks more and
wrong words uttered,
steel blades glint in
the knuckled hands of my
dysfunctional relatives.

The Heat Before The Rain.

The blue bird that flew over the houses had wings that
cast shadows in the olive grove, the docile mule bolted
kicked over the bucket of water, I had carried from
the well, it jumped over a stone fence. Didn’t make it fell
broke a leg. I called my neighbour he likes to kill things, something unresolved, I gather, from his sad childhood.
All that blood a small river trickled and sank into parched
ground, where autumnal flowers sprung up and hid
the dead body in an orgy of colours, that got brighter and
brighter when feasting on decay till they exploded into
a shower of rainbows which attracted dark clouds, and it
rained; huge drops- bigger then a crocodile’s- tears.
Next day the mule grazed as before, docile as nothing had happened, but under an olive tree I found a knife with dry
blood on, and my neighbour was yonder trimming almond
trees that now have brown leaves and are full of nuts.

Princess.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      I I will to bring you peace;

I will share your grief.

I will help you find,

Your dreams in our land.

I will dance,

With you,

On the open plain.

And we will sing,

Warm,

On the cold, cold moon.

I will bring you peace,

Embrace you in your grief,

And dance with you

Into dreams.

The progression of submission  -by Sarah Rowland

Aspirations, dreams, accelerating to be,

Foot in front of foot, impressions only to leave.

Hesitating departures coming only to overdue,

Lost in the old, navigating the new.

Say goodbye to everything that is nothing,

Open a door to a better something.

Inside there lies the path to change,

Destinations to lead the way.

“Twisted little star how fucking far are you?

I’ve sent so many wish’s, are they getting through?

Unjust it that you’ve lit only to guide me into the dark,

Travelling blank your labyrinth now to be my lark.

Tired on my knees, begging you please,

I for an end to my means.

Deserving of accomplishment in which I can lay,

Rightly owed the rewards I should gain.”

“My friend, a life’s not lived quietly dreamt but experienced aloud,

And little substance you’ll gain with your head in the clouds.

The original nature of that you wish to loose,

Should surely be yours and not a star’s to choose.

Freedom is a right, yet there are those still chained and cage,

You’ll never understand its power till you’ve understood the crave.

Will and want are only the start of life’s game,

By by-standing its lessons its awards are earned in vain.

Change is that of losing ones original nature,

And should only be dealt by its creator.

Without true strength you’ll become it’s slave,

Action is yours only, battle for its day.

Inconsequent Calamity.

Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;

maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.

Look back in Sadness.
(Written as Tanka)

Bundle of photos
Face down in a cigar box
Family and friends
From a time that is a dream
Fading into eternity

Mostly black & white
How young my parents looked
Now I’m the oldest
Siblings faded fast away
As I sailed many seas

Non returnable
Past’s gate is firmly padlocked
Wait in no mans land
Know there is no remedy
The past really is a dream.

US Soldiers.

Full of propaganda and democratic zeal
the US soldiers came to Iraq; five years
later they now know there is no “Mission
Accomplished.” The soldiers have grown
up and no longer believe in this war, they
now call useless, mockingly laugh when
politicians speak of winning.

Good, working-class kids, manipulated
and lied to, from small towns and rural
communities, they are true Americans
who love their country, I salute them and
hope their leaders will think well before
asking them to fight, bleed and die for yet
another useless war.

Diet Business

Chocolate that slims, on bar substitute a snack
between meals, and it will not make you fat.
Ninety calories a bar; the wrapper has a silhouette
of a slim person stretching upwards… to heaven?

And she is slim as an angel, for seraphs it is easy
they don’t eat, never hungry, no need for food
which must make their days with only harp music?
to break the tedium of gossiping about the boss.

Snacked five times to day it hasn’t made me thin
my greed is for all to see. From my window I can
see into a café people there drink cold beer, they
are not fat so beer is a dieters dream… lots of it.

(Wedding Party)

Sailing down night Seine
Champagne brut and goose liver
The Eiffel Tower
Dressed in bright coloured charms
Looked like a demi monde

When the barge banked
I gave Seine the bird’s liver
Peed in the river
Studied the sliver of moon
Dreaming of ice cold lager

Paris’s night streets
September mild and at ease
Bars and bistros shut
The worthless slept in doorways
And I thought of Edit Piaf

“Do you want to know a secret?” he said
As he laid upon his bed
His frail old bones so tired now
His hair all but gone from his head

I smiled at him with his weathered face
His hand reaching mine with such tender grace
My heart wrapped in his as I searched his eyes
Words interrupted by breathless sighs

“I’ve lived my life with an open eye
And have been so inspired as the days have gone by.
I made a promise when I was your age
That I’d never be kept within a locked cage”

This man whom I’d loved my entire life through
Was about to teach me something new
So I squeezed his hand a little tighter
Knowing him as my “Heroic Fighter”

“Each day of your life, each moment you live
Keep finding your Inspiration”. He said
His face came alive as he smiled at me
Laying upon his sun drenched bed

“You’ll know in your heart for you’ll be lifted higher
And warmth will surround your Soul”
“Remember to let Inspiration be free
For then you will reach your goal”

His words meant a lot when he spoke that day
And it seemed my life changed in some kind of way
This man in my mind, who inspired me so
Did well to help me learn and grow

I’ve always had a thing about punk garage bands.
My best friend at age six was Benji Matteucci, he had older brothers and sisters. They have American and Chilean heritage. The older siblings of Benji use to give us pocket money to run to the dairy. Most of the time it was for their tobacco or cigarettes. It was back in the day when a 6 year old could still buy cigarettes. The older siblings were like a type of Spanish mafia, they had outrageous haircuts, wore trench coats, smoked and drank
One of the older brothers got expelled from his school for taking a 38 calibre hand gun to class.
Back then I thought they were pretty cool I still think so now. It was the 1970’s and Punk Rock was exploding over the planet. A band called the Sex Pistols had started a new fashion. Benjis older brothers started a band, they practiced in the family garage.
One day Benji and I were chasing each other through the garage, Benjis dad Juan grabbed me aside and said I want to give you a “music lesson”. He took me to the drum set and showed me a series of ones and twos using one hand. He then gave me the drum sticks and told me to have ago, I took the drum sticks from him and tried the same with a drum stick in each hand. He angrily took my left drum stick and put them both in my right hand
This happened about three times he made me remember it using my right hand. I knew Juan had a career in music but I didn’t know what he did exactly. The first day I meet Juan he told me he was a conductor and he showed me how I should hold the baton and mentioned about how it was also the way to hold a glass of wine. When I got older and started to appreciate music more I was always fonder of the Punk genre when I turned 20 I started going to bars and gigs and by age 25 I was involved with the POD niteclub a music venue playing predominately alternative music, hence I was associating with many muso’s. I never played or created any music but I was defiantly in the scene. The lifestyle I was living then caused me to get sick I had had a dysfunctional sleeping disorder since I was a baby and by this stage it was becoming a problem in my adult life.

After a stay in hospital I found myself at Simon’s place, Simon was a skinhead he was in a band and had a drum set in his lounge. He had many visitors mostly muso’s everybody who was there were talking not direct to me but about me the theme of their conversation was about me doing something musical this was not my intention but it was what they were talking about. Simon’s band had a practice one night and their conversation was the same. When they left I was thinking about what they were talking about I had forgotten about Juan but I sat on the couch and traced back through my life thinking of all the times I had done something musical which didn’t amount to much. I sat there and traced back through my life until I remembered the only music lesson I had ever had the one from Juan. I sat at Simon’s drums and tried to play the series of ones and twos but I had forgotten about my right hand and was trying to play the routine with two. I could not get the routine I sat there for about 40 minutes trying I stopped and thought deep until I remembered what Juan did I put both sticks in my right hand and got the routine instant this is when I dropped the punch line “in my sleep” I had the routine simple but only using my right hand not both. Flashes of nostalgia filled my head it was then I realized just how important Juan was and what he had done and what it meant to me, for the first time in my life I had an inclination of who I was it was at that point I broke down and cried.

This time air-borne violence
Corpses falling and falling
Was Devil torching the heavens?
Satan permeated, spread, prevailed, dictated
Demanding more blood
Just daybreak!
And the sky became dark
All withered!
All spent!
All burnt out!
The red blade of Terror’s dagger glinted
Life’s music died
Nothing was saved
As Black Tuesday witnessed countless bodies
Exploded and exploded
Can the heavens smile as usual?
Can dust ever settle?
We’ve let Holy Witness down
Help us, save us O Lord!
Terrified by infinite gloom
Stench, triviality, stress of Terror
Golden sunshine I find
In Prayer at Lord’s feet
This alone reveals hidden rapture and ecstasy.

Haiku

Misty night seeps down
Melancholic September
Averse sky pain for the sun

Haiku

Green moss on wet wall
The northwesterly blows rain
Normal October

Haiku

Parasols seek shelter
Courageous are umbrellas
Joust November storms

Haiku

Festive shop windows
Preen and vie for customers
Long after closing time

Haiku

Fire-works on night sky
Cannot vie with shooting stars
Quarter past twelve

JAN OSKAR HANSEN

HOMECOMING…Prose, Poetry, Senryu

By a Norwegian sailor - stunning, candid reflections of a life on sea and land.

Published by Cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN 978-81-8253-121-5, First Edition, 140 pages, paperback, $15,00.

HOMECOMING is the third one of a triptych of poems: End Of A Voyage, Homeward Bound, Homecoming.

Hansen takes us on an unforgettable journey through his life as a high seas roller. An adventure of brilliant insights. His love, respect and understanding of both nature and humanity with all its foibles. He shocks us into another world with humour and pathos. All masterfully written in prose, poetry and senryu of literary signifance.

Jan Oskar Hansen makes us his shipmate and companion on a journey of a lifetime where we experience through his writing, each powerful, immediate, enlightening observations. His fresh individuality leads us to worlds of wonder, delights us in earthy pleasures with a philosophical twist. We become part of the tapestry he has woven of his multifaceted experiences.

We feel his emotions and passion for the written word as he witnesses many cultures, learns new languages and grows his imagination which is at once ‘dazzling’, thought provoking, candid, richly spiced with intimacy, dream, reality and vast visual vistas of profound awareness of nature in all its vitality.

In conclusion, here is an example of what you will find in HOMECOMING, Jan Oskar Hansen’s most recent brilliant achievement.

THE OLD TART

She’s and old tramp ship now, can’t afford to hire proper crew,
only harbour dregs, to take her to the next port. For some of us she’s home we try to keep her afloat a lick of paint here and there when it can be bought cheap or stolen from a warehouse, that’s getting hard now that all cargo are shipped by containers, locked and sealed. She was riding yellow swells, off Hock van Holland, when news come she’s to be sold as scrap iron the dregs are glad to be ashore bellies full of rum king. For us who loved the old lady it’s sad day, for us she will be the last ship, we know well that we don’t fit the new merchant navy regime, roll on roll off no time for poker and a little whisky.

SENRYU

The angry ocean
Left its irate foam behind
In secret coves

LOVES LAMENT

In the morning breeze I can hear you voice
softly calling my name
in the haze I can see
the contours of you face

In the meadow’s stream
I hear you laughter and
the water in the well is as clear as your tears
the day you said farewell

All in nature reminds me of you,
transient our love, like the flowering almond tree;
beauty never lasts and it was yesteryear.

HAPPY ENDING?

Love is overrated
The cynical sardonically say
But it keeps us sane

Literary review (2008) by Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Author, Poet, Visual Artist (Canada) based upon ‘Homecoming’, published by cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN978-81-8253-121-15 First Edition, 140 Pages, CAN$15.00

JAN OSKAR HANSEN (Portugal). His poems have been published in 20 literary magazines worldwide, including:
Hudson Review, USA, Skyline, USA, Skald, Wales, La rue Bella, England, The Bards, England, War is a dangerous place, England, The Black Mountain Review, Ireland, ARS Poetica India, India, Braquemard, England, Firefly Magazine, USA, Pphoo, India, Taj Mahal Review, India, Remark Magazine, USA, Journal of Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, England.

His poems appear in many anthologies. Collections ‘Letters from Portugal’ (bewrite books) Bristol, ‘La Strada’ Lapwing Publishers), Belfast, ‘End of Voyage’ (WFP New York), ‘Marilyn Monroe Remembered’ Erbacce Press, Liverpool, ‘The Fairground’ Ranch, India (out of print now).

BARBARA ELIZABETH MERCER (CANADA) Poet, Visual Artist, Author of 4 books of poetry published by Cyberwit,net (India), SECRETS, 2008, LEGACY, 2007, SELF PORTRAIT, 2006, MYSTIC WILLS, 2005. Co-author with Steve Chering, London, UK, book of poetry WHEN POETS COLLIDE, Pub. Lulu,com, USA, Her paintings, in Public Collections: University of Toronto Art Centre, Imperial Oil, Robert McLaughlin Gallery, Oshawa, Canada. Many international private collections.

Haiku

The vanishing act
Summer leaves the verandah
Autumn light enters

Haiku

Deepening shadows
Fallen leaves on the terrace
Time for reflections

Haiku

A summer has gone
The breeze has a chill within
Will we meet next year?

Machination

In my vale I hear the echo of combat,
bullets targeted forward fired by lucky
warriors who kill civilians who, with
their chattel, obscure the long view.

The right place, wrong time, blood and
bodies under canvas, tears; pledge of
vengeance. Death is clean and nattily
dressed, sport sunglasses day and night.

The Room

The room on the attic had a bed, a commode,
bare floorboards on which dust danced as on
command, light came from a loft window.

The murmur I had stopped, the room waited
for my next move, I looked around nothing
here to bother about and closed the door.

My uncle lived here, he only left his room and
came down for his meals, when he didn’t
vanish for weeks “The Drink, mother said.

One day he didn’t return, after a year mother
went to the police and reported him missing,
after that no one mentioned him again.

I only remembered him now that I was selling
the house and looked around for something
of worth to take with me.

I opened the door again, and dust danced, on
the commode a small book, poetry written by
himself, odd no one had told me that.

A man, had written of the wonders he had seen,
landscape and seascape coloured by his mind,
the forgotten had sprung back to life.

I sat on his bed and read, till daylight faded and
it was night, looked out of the window and saw
what he had seen, the beauty and his loneliness.

The room was silent now it didn’t need to sing,
or whisper its sorrow. I had heard his song and
will carry his voice into the future.

Brides.

Silk worms spewed me a suit fit for a king
Wore it at a wedding where I coveted
Another man’s bride

The worms came, ate my fine suit, they
Had found me unworthy; naked walked
through the park of autumnal leaves.

By daybreak I sat on a stone by the sea
And didn’t hear the cockerel crew, a mermaid
Beckoned for me to join her.

We swam to an island not marked by maps
In the bay I saw my old schooner called May,
De-rigged now and unable to sail

Cured of my vanity, worms spewed me
Another fine suit; by not looking back I walked
On water to a wedding in Paris.