Spectre Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

The Spectres



In the olive grove I see a group print of ghosts,

stumps of amputated boughs painted white;

I look for a pen to draw eyes noses and ears,

to bring life to expressionless, pallid faces.

I have a ghostly photograph on my cottage's

wall, it's from my merchant-navy college days,

the group of smiling youths are all dead now

except for two, we're old timers spit and wait.

How young we were, 'here we are, life, ' smile,

bitter regrets hadn't yet clouded our features;

suit, tie and short hair, pre beat generation, our

heroes were John Wayne and Edgar G. Hoover.

It is almost unbearable to see them like this,

I look for a pencil got to make up for lost time,

redraw their faces and bring them back to life.