Jan Oskar Hansen is a Norwgian ex merchant navy man who began writing poetry eleven years ago. For the past five years his poetry has been published worldwide. Other than that, he's a mystery to us, but an interesting one.

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September Forest

Morning mist hung dreamily over the forest's lake,
in the glade Bambi stood stock still looking pretty,
while I sat on a rock patting my pockets to see if
I had any siggies left.
At that moment she came
shimmering out of the lake,
the nymph with long golden hair that covered her nudity.
As she glided passed me her stomach rumbled
which I thought was cute
it made her human and approachable.

"Morning Solveig, looks like it's
going to be a fine day?"

"My name isn't Solveig, it's Xanthippe and I think
it's going to rain later".

"Crumbs!"

For the next two hours she nagged me,
a man she had never met before,
Bambi was still standing there looking pretty,
but it was an image,
a fond picture in my mind.
Bark on trees shrivelled and pale leaves fell off oaks
as the echo of her voice, rumbled through the forest.
Mid-morning the nymph had metamorphosed into a bad tempered witch with a broom
brushing the path to her cave while complaining about fallen, mouldy leaves and animal droppings.
And I was thinking of a mermaid of bronze
forever silent sitting on a rock,
yet when seeing her
I can hear the ancient song of the seas.

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The Blessed

Handicapped beggars fight for the best position
nearest the church's door,
the one with spiked crutches wins.
We who have communicated with
god are in a mellow mood,
give more coins than we should,
which we notice with annoyance when
we pay for a coffee and have to break into a note.
That's why we scowl at the beggar in the town
square,
ignore his outstretched, dirty palm and silly
grin.
We are going church next Sunday too,
feel blessed while beggars fight outside.

The Past Is An Old Dream

Ten years since we had acrimoniously
parted
(ten years isn't long when you
are middle-aged)
rang she did and asked me out for coffee.
I suggested lunch, but
she thought that was too intimate.

"Twelve o'clock sharp" "Sure"

She was already sat at a table, in the café
where we used to meet
and if her face was my mirror
I had done a lot of living.
I arrested my tongue and said nice things
about her looks
and smart summer frock.

She spoke about the old days
apparently we had had some good times;
told of her husband who had fallen off the balcony,
hurt his left shoulder and ankle,
I clucked my commiseration.

Asked about my life,
but before I could answer
she mentioned her husband's left shoulder again
and I repeated my clucking.
Had to do some shopping, she said;
left me
to wonder why she had wanted to see me?

Jan Oskar Hensen
©2002