Oskar Hansen


Oskar Hansen Poems

121. A Poets Dilemma 1 7/15/2016
122. A Portrait Of Emptiness 1/28/2016
123. A Prince Is Born 7/24/2013
124. A Pugilist And A Whistleblower 6/21/2016
125. A Question 12/24/2015
126. A Quickie In The Kitchen 10/26/2015
127. A Rant 12/10/2012
128. A Rat 6/8/2015
129. A Rat In Bed 10/19/2016
130. A Reflective Moment 8/3/2015
131. A Reminder 8/20/2012
132. A Sad Affair In India 1/22/2013
133. A Sea Bird 3/4/2016
134. A Sea Dirge 3/16/2013
135. A Shadorma Poem 1/6/2012
136. A Shanty 5/4/2009
137. A Sigh (Tanka) 9/7/2009
138. A Slum Outside Paris 8/15/2015
139. A Small World 11/22/2016
140. A Smaller Poem 9/20/2016
141. A Sonnet (San Suu Kyu) 8/11/2009
142. A Stone Wall 4/27/2016
143. A Story Of The Unsung 3/26/2013
144. A Sudden Second Sight 7/11/2013
145. A Summer 4/24/2012
146. A Summer Night 7/19/2009
147. A Summer Remembered 7/16/2015
148. A Tale Never Told 10/19/2011
149. A Tin Of Sardines 7/27/2010
150. A Tough Cookie 3/17/2015
151. A Tragedy 1/31/2017
152. A Truely Norwegian Poem 5/18/2009
153. A Tv Star 10/14/2012
154. A Verse For You 9/26/2011
155. A Verse Of Sexual Nature 12/19/2010
156. A Village 7/16/2009
157. A Village In Iberia 8/23/2009
158. A Voyage To Argentina 4/8/2017
159. A Way 4/1/2009
160. A Weepy 6/9/2010
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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