Argentina…Not Long Ago

by Jan Oskar Hanson

On the pampas of Argentine my young,

Restless filly threw me off and I watched

Her gallop beyond the limit of my vision.

I wasn't sorry to see her go what I missed

Was my new saddle and Winchester rifle.

In this vast ocean of grassland I looked for

A focal point an island and saw a tree not

Too far away, the tree was big only 'cause

It was the only one there. Under it, empty

Cans of baked beans and in the air a sense

Of guitar strumming and communal songs

Around a campfire when lonely men look

At the moon and talk about their darling

And reveal a tenderness they never show

In broad daylight. Fell asleep and awoke,

Just before the night came rolling in from

The west, by an old swaybacked mare

Nuzzling me. She was fully saddled and

Had friendly, trusting eyes, clearly she had

Been abandoned my the man who had found

My filly. The mare needed me as much as

I needed her; mounted and since I didn't

Know the way; let her lead us to the nearest

Watering hole. It was close to nine but starlit

When we came to an adobe, stabled her at

The livery where my filly was stabled too.

Walked across the road to the cantina to

Speak to the man who had found her. At first

He was weary, kept his right hand close to his

Shooter, but when he realised I only wanted

My saddle and gun back he relaxed, we had

Drinks. Later we went to Donna Carmen's

Place where the music was loud and women

Only wore big smiles. Next day my mare and

I began our ponderous trek across the papas.

Before noon, the young vaqueiro overtook us

On his galloping filly.

Thanks to My Old Man

by Jan Oskar Hanson

My father was always absent

Sailing rudderless on the great

Ocean of daydreams, seeking

Safe harbour, solace in a tart’s

Embraces and drinking deep

Off the fountain of oblivion.



I loved my father but treated

Him with contempt when a young

Man who tried, for a while, to

Be righteous as everybody else

In our street. Now that I’m old

I realise that he was a poet who

Never got around to write what

Was in his heart. My mirror tells

Me that I look like my father

Now, but I was lucky I left the

Fishing port up north and struck

Gold on warmer shores.

UNTITLED

by Jan Oskar Hanson

My family in Norway is as

Contemptuous of me as I used

To be of the old man, but my

Celebrant in the mirror tells me to

Go on living and don’t give up

Hope as he once did… So every

Night I rise my glass of wine and

Rejoice the inheritance given me.

Above works: Copyright Jan Oskar Hanson 2001

About the Author:

Jan's a Norwegian poet who lives in Portugal. Her poetry has been featured in Poets and Writers magazine.

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