Jan Oskar Hansen
Palestine.
I sit in my kitchen the wall clock
Ticks ten past seven evening time.
I feel at ease and doves of peace
Cross a distant sky.
The unchanging hum of the fridge
Accentuates my inner harmony,
Perhaps there will be peace too in
Palestine where a child, newly born,
Died in a senseless war and became
A bitter memory long before she
Had a memory herself.
" We're so very sorry, we apologise,
But we have the right to defend our
Settlers of this land."
…And from the dispossessed, a cry
Of revenge echoes through ravaged
Streets.
I sit in my kitchen and the fridge
Hums a lullaby of everlasting sorrow.
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Sweet Dreams?
Dreamed of you last night, the ease
of our embrace, not wanting to break
free, or be alone, the dream ended
as it began us entwined, in the grip
of eternity; woke up to a calm
bedroom and your vanishing smile.
My wife breathed evenly beside
me the pain of lost love and
the sadness of not loving her,
the way I still adore you, kept me
trapped in a melancholic
mood till released by a new day.
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On Getting Old.
It's a strange sensation, being sixty.
Feel as I have won a battle
struggling up a mountain of years,
Now that I've captured the high
Grounds I can look back and smile
sans regrets.
Look ahead and see a new
beginning, 'cause I now that I'll be
a flower on an almond tree.
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The Real Meeting.
We sat in a circle fourteen of us,
pointing knees at each other, drinking
coffee and trying to look relaxed.
Sweaty palms discretely dried on
trousers leg
One of the six women in the group
began talking - women are better at
airing their feelings than men- she
went on, a great length, about a life
of endless cocktail parties around
a swimming pool, posh wine in
expensive restaurant, of which I knew
nothing; fiddled with a lighter,
a sign on the wall read NO SMOKING.
Then the other five spoke in turn,
they all seem to have sprung from
the same glamorous background.
Ten minutes left when the chair asked
if any of the men had anything to say,
we mumbled something about feeling
fine; a short prayer, meeting over and
could go outside lit a fag and the real
meeting began.
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The Lost and Forgotten
Working Class Generation.
We who left school in 1968 without
Honours and degrees, had dreams when
We filled factories and building sites
With youthful laughter which soon
Stopped when run over by the juggernaut
Of life, marriage and a high rise flat.
Later when work dried up, no skills no
Education and too old for a new job,
Divorce, queuing at the dole a flight
Into booze, walking the streets of rue,
Fuck it all and waiting for tomorrow.
Lady of Mercy, only one dream left,
That of coming up on the pool, quid's
In, a round of drinks for the mates in
The pub and self-respect; we know it
Won't happen but dream we must, or
Be flotsam in streets of regrets where
It's always gloomy and eyes have lost
The sheen of hope.
