Oskar Hansen


Oskar Hansen Poems

41. A Different Sonnet 1/17/2016
42. A Dog Called America 9/13/2013
43. A Dog For Sale 8/27/2013
44. A Dream Called Israel 6/19/2015
45. A Fable 1/15/2011
46. A Fable 2 5/28/2016
47. A Fairy Tale 2 7/3/2016
48. A Farming Couple 8/17/2015
49. A Female Pedophiliac 7/3/2012
50. A Fine Film Of Sadness 5/16/2010
51. A Flat In Town 6/8/2016
52. A French Visit 8/28/2012
53. A Friend In Need 4/19/2013
54. A Glass Of Wine 3/10/2013
55. A Hole In The Sky 3/8/2016
56. A Horse Story 6/22/2015
57. A Housewife In Alexandria 10/20/2009
58. A Kinda Love Story 2/25/2011
59. A Lady Unknown 4/28/2013
60. A Lady´s Handbag 7/12/2013
61. A Landscape 12/11/2008
62. A Left Winger -new- 7/14/2016
63. A Left Winger 1 -new- 7/14/2016
64. A Leonine Moment 9/1/2014
65. A Letter Sent 7/25/2013
66. A Life-Time 7/8/2015
67. A Literary Magazine 8/18/2015
68. A Literary Magazine Of The American Type 8/18/2015
69. A Litre Of Wine 11/24/2008
70. A Little Sardine 11/29/2015
71. A Lizard Sonnet 7/5/2016
72. A Look Ahead 8/13/2013
73. A Love Story 11/14/2010
74. A Love Story 1 1/18/2016
75. A Love Story Too 3/17/2014
76. A Love Story? 11/27/2010
77. A Man Called Anders 8/2/2011
78. A Man's Alexandria 10/24/2009
79. A Marine Story 11/25/2013
80. A Mistake And A Big Bosom 3/17/2016
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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