oskar hansen


oskar hansen Poems

41. A Fine Film Of Sadness 5/16/2010
42. A French Visit 8/28/2012
43. A Friend In Need 4/19/2013
44. A Glass Of Wine 3/10/2013
45. A Horse Story 6/22/2015
46. A Housewife In Alexandria 10/20/2009
47. A Kinda Love Story 2/25/2011
48. A Lady Unknown 4/28/2013
49. A Lady´s Handbag 7/12/2013
50. A Landscape 12/11/2008
51. A Leonine Moment 9/1/2014
52. A Letter Sent 7/25/2013
53. A Life-Time 7/8/2015
54. A Literary Magazine 8/18/2015
55. A Literary Magazine Of The American Type 8/18/2015
56. A Litre Of Wine 11/24/2008
57. A Look Ahead 8/13/2013
58. A Love Story 11/14/2010
59. A Love Story Too 3/17/2014
60. A Love Story? 11/27/2010
61. A Man Called Anders 8/2/2011
62. A Man's Alexandria 10/24/2009
63. A Marine Story 11/25/2013
64. A Modest Table 1/20/2011
65. A Moment In Time 10/13/2011
66. A Moment To Remember 6/29/2010
67. A Naruto 11/3/2010
68. A New Love 8/5/2015
69. A Nice Middle Class Family 2/20/2009
70. A Nice View 8/26/2013
71. A Night To Remember 12/16/2008
72. A None Writing Day 8/3/2015
73. A Note For You 11/17/2014
74. A Pair Of Brown Shoes 10/28/2014
75. A Pair Of Senryu 8/9/2011
76. A Pair Of Shoes 1/15/2014
77. A Pavement Cafe 10/4/2011
78. A Perfect Painting 2/22/2012
79. A Pessimistic View From A Balcony In Paris 10/21/2010
80. A Phone Call 1/21/2010
Best Poem of oskar hansen

...And It Was Her Summer

…And It Was Her Summer


“Go back to the children’s home, she said I have no work and
can’t afford to keep you” Late June afternoon she sat on a bench
with a man I didn’t know. The man smiled I didn’t like him, but
took the coins he gave me to buy an ice –cream for; I was still
hanging about so mother got up and slapped me across the face.
”Get lost you stupid boy! ” My face was burning I threw the coins
into the lake and ran away. When I stopped running it was night
and I could see sheep in a field, I was tired and cold, thought of
seeking shelter in a...

Read the full of ...And It Was Her Summer

Lady And The Tramp

The Lady and the Tramp

I took the bus from Ellesmere Port to Birkenhead,
from there the underground to Liverpool, walked
to Hanover Street; took a rickety lift up four floors
to a studio where Miss Summers tried to teach me
to speak posh English. A hopeless task my Norse
accent refused to be relegated clung to my throat
like phlegm, the size of a jelly fish, and anyway,

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