January 22-28, 2007: Jan Oscar Hansen and Jonathan Hayes

week of January 22-28, 2007

Jan Oscar Hansen and Jonathan Hayes



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Jan Oscar Hansen
jan-hansen@clix.pt

Bio (auto)

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Jan Oskar Hansen is a poet from, Benafim, Algarve, Portugal He is the author of “Letters from Portugal”,  “Lunch in Denmark” and “La Strada” and his work also appears in the anthologies “Routs” and “Shaken & Stirred” published by Bewrite books
Visit Jan’s blog here: oskar.aucklandpoetry.com

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Jan Oscar Hansen and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Hunting Party

When hunters have been, in my valley on
Sundays, they lay out birds and rabbits in
a row and talk excitedly about the day’s
kill before dividing the booty
NATO troops kill 55 five Taliban
The TV, news says,

Corpses are trucked in from near and afar,
laid in a row for the press to count the dead;
fleshy, white skinned Danish officers give
orders to scrawny Afghans in new uniforms,

A wall of smiles and elastic loyalty between
them that makes sense; armies come and go,
but the Afghans will always remain here in
this mystic, untamed and sand-coloured land


The Writer

Dreamed of Hemingway,
out hunting gazelles;
he shot one and bragged
shamelessly about it when
sitting by the fireside
drinking gin
But I heard him late at night
in his tent crying, he had
created monster image of
himself, the tough guy, he
couldn’t escape
Mind, he did in the end,
his brain splattered
on wallpaper, an abstract
pattern of dead thoughts and the unsaid.


The Hunted

The little red fox he had shot
and now carried by its hind legs
to the village to show his mates,
dripped blood from its mouth On to the sea- sand lane drops,
of ruby glinted in the sun, but
quickly paled as domestic dogs
went wild ready to tear a tiny
body apart The hunter and his
mates laughed

Other People

An Indonesian plane fell into the Java Sea
no Portuguese onboard; it’s ok then, next
item Soon Bangladesh will be a turf sticking
up from the sea, a few trees where monkeys
sit trying to figure out how to catch fish
The warming of the planet, don’t you blame
me for that I have been talking about it for
years, but can’t take any action; what is it
you want me to do? March in the street and
shout: “Down with the capitalists!”

Israel is in trouble they have burnt bridges
to peace a siege mentality rules, end of dreams
and fiddlers on the roof The president of
Palestine drives an expensive black Mercedes,
but his prime minister waves a green flag.


Rex, The Memory

When Captain John Henderson, of US army,
was twelve he had a wolfhound called Rex,
his father said the dog was too old and shot
it in front of the boy, who cradled the dog,
cried and got blood on his shirt; his mother
scolded him for that
Later his father fell out of a helicopter, (talk
of suicide) and his mother remarried
Captain John Henderson sat in his humvee
patrolling streets of dust and hate when it
exploded and he flew up in the air where he
met Rex, his only friend, in a field near home,
together they walked away from the vista of
endless deaths

The mangled body they put into, a zip up bag,
wore a saintly smile


Jonathan Hayes
jsh619@earthlink.net

Bio (auto)

Jonathan Hayes lives in San Francisco, California He has taught poetry at 826 Valencia – a writing center for children – located in the Mission District of the City.

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Jonathan Hayes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Boob Tube

shows the dictator
sentenced to be hung,
the baseball manager
leaving town and
going to another

city.

The weather report
of more rain coming soon, 
and then the electric socket

goes out
in your room.

Territory

A black fly buzzing

inside white lampshade
casting a noir shadow.

It leaves warm glow
of circumference

– soars onto desk
and assaults the keyboard.

Circuit

Time
is black –
an hour
when all
is visible,
like a poem.


The Distinguished Visiting Professor

dons himself in deep and dark black threads,

having left one school for sexual harassment, now

coming into the classroom with a poor boy sandwich:

an intellectual gangster in the hallway,

with weapons of mass destruction
in the spring of his

step

On the 9 San Bruno

Permanent magic maker graffiti ink nostrils up my nose as backseat bus boy
gets his initials up and kid sitting next to me brakes up twenty dollars
of primo purple weed – reeking!

Tells me, “It smells good, right?”

Then he looks at it in his blunted hand and says, “This is my Thanksgiving.”

And the back door opens and folks get on the bus and off the bus.

Don’t you feel it, man?

I mean what the fuck, I am not even going to get political,
but can’t you feel it on that 9 San Bruno

w/ those banditos riding back outside to the city’s pastures of
literature and ethnic studies and Jerry Garcia I found your finger.

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