Auckland Poetry

“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.

Addiction

Looking out of the window, in the doctor’s
waiting room, I saw his receptionist who
had gone outside for a smoke, she wore
black underwear under a white nylon dress
which is a faux pas, but I couldn’t give
a damn it was the way she inhaled filling
her lungs with aromatic tobacco that filled
me with uncontrollable lust, mouth open
I swooned. The receptionist, a woman of
forty-five who- in her attempt not to look
middle aged- had slimmed herself bony,
turned, saw my carnality, shuddered, and
quickly she killed her cigarette and my
desire with a heel of steal.

Tanka

Translate Moor poems
From Portuguese to English
And hear the murmur,
An echo of poets’ songs
Going back a thousand years.

Tanka

Andalusia,
Once an Arabic province
Poets once lived there
Sat dreaming in lush gardens
Writing verses of lost love

Tanka

Andalusia,
Christians marched
Sun shone on bloodied swords
Moslem’s peaceful rule vanished
But poets’ verses live on

light flickery moments recording
books you found at the library
the behind the camera not famous
she was a better photograph
and nothing else mattered
except to the photographer
who was proud to have met the celebrity knew him
all that

while the mysterious
wandering eyeball
glass silver revealing girls
and background glad for
the attention in focus
some people
were rushing about recording
history for the parents that ignored them
but celebrated Bergman
all that

heartless creatures attending plays
seated in the stalls
where the theatre was experience
comfort an after thought
held by impressions of eager
fogotten mystics
calling at the sun
shine the ocres that spread
over the scenes
all that

stuff that pour into senses
wide open and accepting
the perception as fiction
moulding itself to the tune
talking about failures to see
interest on the hard won war
the far test of resolve
the winter of limbs
meeting swords
the harshest blades
wielded by screaming slaves
cutting their way out
of the belly of commercial
cost analysis the pathway out of noise
the wending river of wellness
the working weeks went east
and we dined upon the seats
around the table this feast

It starts by sitting in its allocated slot.
Then pushed into the inside of the carriage.
It spins and spins in its berthed slot.
It has encrypted data saved to its edge.
The drive of the motor engages its data.
The laser reads what secrets are held on the device.
The encryption flows through to the wired speakers
And out comes music it fills the void of empty solace.
The CD plays song after song, melodies not too long.
One by one till all gone.
When it’s finished its time for a new one,
Eject the old and in with the new.
Start the process again like something blue.

She reminds me of somebody I grew up with. To tell the truth she is a dead ringer for that object of my affection. My childhood friend is older now but this girl at work is a younger image of her. I’ve been spying and stutter to think what she would say if she new what I mean. She’s very attractive and I’m keen. But yes I know I’m a little green.
I ponder the courage to speak I hope it doesn’t come out as a squeak. I’m really attracted to her I just need to show her how much. There is a line from a song “if you can’t be with the one that you love, love the one that you are with” that seems to sum up my situation. I let go of the hopes of an arranged marriage and embrace what is in my real living world. She is an excellent example of what I need and can help me get to the next step where I need to be. I am the “alpha male” type and I find it easier to bleed. So today a new born need is coming from within to find my future partner that’s what I need. I am a co-dependent person I work and perform better as two, I need a friend and lover she’s compatible indeed. So my dear wife I ask in need will you ever forgive me for what could be.

The Breath.

Easily in and out you breathe, with lungs
unsullied by cigarette smoke, siesta nap
a lazy Sunday on afternoon when flowers
wilt and sky is recklessly nude

Breathtaking, the silence, if you should
stop; I would fall down a chasm of pale
rainbows, stillborn moons, rusty stars
where words of love are unheard of.

Inhale and exhale my dear, snore too if
you must, but don’t leave me alone in
city parks where old men sit spit and tell
passersby how old they are.

Double Tanka

If, say… Christ returns
Bearded and in white burnoose
Will he be seized?
And sent to Guantanamo
If he looks like Bin Laden

Water tortured
Made confess odious crimes
He is innocent of
Or just say; “not again dad”
And magically disappear.

Still Life.

Mother used to have on the wall, a picture
of a dead boy in his coffin, surrounded by
flowers, candles and silence.

I often stared hard at the picture, willing
the boy to open his eyes, he never obliged
me, but came alive in my dreams.

The name of the boy’s mother was Olga she
used to visit us till mother and her fell out,
mother thought it rude to remove the picture.

Years went by, my brother died and mother
took the picture down, but it was still there,
a square less faded than the rest of the wall.

The Doubt

Snow fell between us, more and more,
I couldn’t see you, blizzard in my hearts;
when the weather cleared the landscape
was white with hares and fox tracks.
This mass of snow didn’t know where to
dig and I had no snow-spade. Waited till
April when snow thawed and hares had
been hunted to extinction and fox fur
adorned and gave warm comfort to old
ladies. You looked fine, just as before,
but there was a hole in your head, and
now they think I have had a hand in your
demise…. Preposterous!

The Lone Parent

Active silence stalks my house, when it gets
too noisy I walk into the kitchen make a cup
of coffee and bang cooking pots lid together.
in the day my bedroom is light an airy softly
moving curtains let in the light and sound of
the street, come night it falls into melancholy
so deep I need a diver’s suit to go to bed.

I sit by the fireplace and it doesn’t roar, blue
flames move to a sound that is composed, for
them alone, by logs that do not even sigh
when made into ash; and there on the rug my
black cat is dead as a lost bedroom slipper.
my only daughter has gone to seek her fortune,
works in a Taco Bell and wears a uniform.

Senryu

I had to haste home
But left my eyes on a stone
To enjoy, sundown

Senryu

In the square’s corner
A fallen woman danced
With dust and leaves

Senryu

A denuded phellem
Suffers in noble silence
Birds do not titter.

Window Facing Backyard.3

Snow had fallen into the yard, a boy
was making a snowman; no, not
a fat one, but a small and skinny one
much snow falls down a dark space
between tall buildings.

The boy, whose mother clean steps
and lives in the basement flat, gave
the snowman coal eyes, carrot nose
and personality, it also wore my old
baseball cap.

When April came and snowmen in
nice people’s gardens had melted,
ours was still there, minus eyes and
nose; I kept sensing his presence, as
a work of art, after his final demise.

Window Facing backyard.2

From my window I can see the wall of
a factory where they used to make cigars.
On good days I can inhale the aroma of
bygone days that despite poverty were
in many ways, less judgmental than now

Eight month a year the wall is grey, but
come May when dry and lit by sunlight,
it is a map of the world. Lakes, rivers,
mountains, seas and arid regions where
an oily, black mass trickles down.

How nice it will be if someone comes
along scrapes off the old paint fills in
cracks and repainted the wall; pink this
time. I fear it’s too late, the wall will
soon fall drained by human disregards.

Widow Facing Backyard. 1

I keep plastic flowers on the window sill,
they are spray painted in vivid colours;
I take them in once week and rinse them
under the tap; this morning they had tiny
snow flakes on, looked pretty and lit up
a room that only sees sunlight in June.

My lady friend thought them vulgar, ashamed
of my bad taste I let them fall down into
the dark yard and we went out for dinner.
Silent and angry I left early, walked home
picked up the flowers, rinsed them under
the tap and put them back on sill.

Child of War.

I was four when bombs fell and exploded with a cool bang, burning houses free heat on a January night.
When the enemy soldiers came, big men laughing intoxicated
by victory, so different from those pale man at the factory
and, yes I became enthralled and without looking back
joined the invaders as a mascot; blue eyes and blond hair and
teeth as white as Italian marble. Yes, the warriors loved me
the child of war; an army tailor sewed me a golden uniform.
I was there riding, alongside the commandant, saluting
the troops who indulgently smiled. What they did not know
any talk of sedition from them I reported to my leader, but in
the end they knew and they feared me greatly…War is in my blood, and I’m not even British, peace didn’t bode me well it
made me tired I slept for forty five years and luckily for me
the Iraqi war came along, in itself nothing much, but it is
the ember that will set the world afire and once more we will
have world war. Sweet blood and heavenly light let me be consumed by your fire, let me see the earth burn and let me
once more sit on a steed and lead men of iron into oblivion