Winter of Discontent

The air over Europe is clear and cold
on my terrace the parasol is down flaps
slightly like the sail on a becalmed caravel.

The pond near, the houses, is frozen solid,
the sun has no power, but makes nature
look like a pretty postcard

As the pond compassion is hard packed
too, the ground I walk on is unyielding;
this is the face of bitter unhappiness.

Amongst the voiceless olive trees a bird
shrieks a warning and in the stillness
that follows I hear drums of war.

The Human Condition

The paleness of the screen ogles me waits
to be written on like woman waiting for me
to make the first move, but I'm too timid fear
her rejection, shall I murmur a little jovial, say
she has lovely hair? Or is that too forward?

Can't very well mention the massacre in Gaza,
and that it is the victims of Israel's foul act
who get blamed? Or shall I say, the display of
fireworks on the night and buildings on fire
has its own awe-inspiring beauty?

In 1959 I sat in a park, New Year's Eve, holding
hands with a gipsy girl in Huelva, Spain, but for
Maria was a boring town, she had brown legs,
dark eyes and dusty feet, her grim father came
took my lighter and chased me away.

Now isn't that a better story to tell, than tales
of the tediousness, the human tragedy named
Gaza, where the sky rains fire and children are
covered in the dust of war, unable to escape,
but will she listen to such a sad story?

---

Now.

Today I will not get depressed looking at pictures
Of Gaza taken by a compliant press at a distance,
No victims, it is like looking at a computer game.

Today I'll not sink into despondency because of
Some trouble that is far from my shores by people
With a different faith and culture then mine

Today I will watch children's TV on canal two, it's
So refreshing to see honesty digressed, a pause
From the real TV, that only deal in make believes.

Today I will not think badly of Isralites, I will not say,
Give them the little finger and they take the hand,
Because I refuse to be like the repellent Zionists.

....

New Year Eve 2009

Midnight, New Year, fireworks explodes on
velvety sky. Gaza has fireworks too every day,
but they aren't enjoying it the way we do,
standing here on the terrace of a five star hotel,
perhaps it is only three stars, drinks in hand
and idle chat. I feel wretched, wish I was drunk
but this place only severs wine and that is not
enough to drown my lack of shame.
Palestine, Europe doesn't cry for you tonight.

biografia:
Jan Oskar Hansen is a poet, story teller and seafarer, born in Stavanger, Norway. He joined the merchant navy at 15 and spent most of his life at sea until settling in the early 1990s in Portugal. His poetry has been widely published in hard copy and online, worldwide. Reviewers have generally commented that a love and honoring of living things stands out in Hansen's work, and deep humility; that it reveals with unflinching honesty man's shortcomings in his efforts to love, telling what there is to tell in a first person, deeply resident universal voice.

The poet is widely read and fluent in several languages, knowledge often acquired at night during his many years at sea. He chose to write primarily in English following enthusiastic reception of his work from English-speaking editors and readers.

oskar.hansen@sapo.pt