Oskar Hansen


Oskar Hansen Poems

1841. Wind Turbines 6/20/2013
1842. Window Into The Past 2/6/2011
1843. Wine Story 5/8/2012
1844. Winter Algarve 1/27/2009
1845. Winter In Shardoma Land 12/10/2011
1846. Winter Jacket 11/29/2014
1847. Winter Landscape 10/17/2016
1848. Winter Night 12/3/2010
1849. Winter Of Discontent 9/22/2011
1850. Winter Of Discontent 2 1/10/2016
1851. Winterlight 2/3/2010
1852. Wintertale 2/3/2014
1853. Wintery Blush 12/1/2010
1854. Wisdom 4/19/2011
1855. Within The Circle 5/1/2012
1856. Women Who Drink And Sex 6/24/2015
1857. Wonder Drug 7/21/2014
1858. Wonder Of Spring 4/13/2012
1859. Wonderful America 8/21/2013
1860. Wonderful Scandinavia 2/4/2016
1861. Woodland 6/5/2014
1862. Wordless 2/22/2011
1863. Words In My Mouth 7/19/2015
1864. Worker Ants 7/14/2009
1865. Working Class And Teachers 11/23/2016
1866. Working Class Poet 5/18/2016
1867. Working Class Soldier 1/14/2010
1868. World News 11/7/2012
1869. World War 3 11/26/2015
1870. Worlds Biggest Rat 8/24/2010
1871. Worried Water Vertebrates 3/17/2012
1872. Worth Fighting For 1/22/2015
1873. Www And Cute Puppies 12/24/2010
1874. Yang Sing River 6/21/2015
1875. Yemen 3/19/2011
1876. Yemeni 1/23/2015
1877. You Are What You Drink 7/25/2012
1878. You Too 9/3/2009
1879. Young Lovers 12/7/2010
1880. Yule Logs 12/22/2012
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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