Lisbon, Cuba, Romania.
Where else could I go?
I wish I could enjoy the run, but your shadow engulfs the view.
I wish I could change my name, but my body is vexed with yours.
I wish I could leave you behind, but I always leave a trail of fear for you to sniff out.
Like a panther, memorising the luxurious, frantic pounding of my heart.
A shameless part of me thrills at the hunt.
The music blasts in my ears, a roaming beat that caves my heart in remembrance of you.
And of how you never really stay in remembrance.
I loathe you.
The rough stubble I cannot resist, the black swallowing me along with your irises, the way you breath my name, so electrifying and so utterly haunting.
I hate you.
And I hate how deliciously and desperately I crave you.
I want to vanish.
I want to hide.
I want to win this round.
And in the next round I want you to find me.
I want you to bite me.
I want you to pull my hair and tell me I have nothing beyond the bars of your arms.
I want to run forever.
I want to fight forever.
I want to be yours forever.
Hunt me.
Kill me.
Love me.
2026
New Year's Eve, the two of us
Eat at seven to prepare for the fireworks at twelve
She had sweet wine, and I drank red wine
We both fell asleep
Then we woke up, it was ten to twelve, but we
were drowsy and sat there listening to
the noise outside
Rockets spewing red stars that had no lingering
light, dying instantly
The noise outside continued, the Lisbon mayor
Sad it would last ten minutes
I thought someone was frightened of tomorrow
1974 and the Guardian newspaper
On a ship, where I was employed, docked
In Lisbon, a few days after the Carnation Revolution
The air was full of anticipation
I took a double-decker bus to the town center
A throng of cheerful people filled the narrow streets
At a paper stall, pornographic mags had moved in
getting the most out of newfound freedom
I ate Fesjoada tras montania (bean stew), drank
a bottle of Sagres beer, and later walked around
streets, but with so much noise, I bought
The Guardian newspaper, which I thought was
a harbinger of the truth
Back then, The Guardian was a fresh, brave paper,
These days, it is rather staid in the political line
pro-American, but it is still a better paper
than the Ghastly "Sun" and the Sunday papers
I still read that paper online, which has good art pages
But politically, we parted ways a long time ago
Who is this saint?
From which church?
Who’s he talking to?
What is this saint?
I don’t have time
To think of him,
What is this saint?
He is not in Lisbon,
He is not in Rome,
What is this saint?
He does not think of me,
A crook or a magician,
What is this saint?
Valentine’s Day?
Excuse me, I don’t know.
Restless is Portugal
There is mayhem in Paradise
the citizens of Lisbon are tired of the bother
and street fighting, where knives are used by
migrants
Gang fights, robbery, and shop theft is a daily
Matter, the police work double shifts
Most of the incomers are from Pakistan and
Bangladesh, where Portugal once had a colony
The democratic socialists ask for calm
It was under their rules letting in people who
Have no work, congregate in the streets
harassing passers-by
A problem caused when a country takes in
too many migrants that can’t be absorbed
into the population
it is not helpful when migrants
Are Islam followers demanding the right
to practice their Islamic faith
Portugal is a staunchly catholic country
her people are angry at migrants and politicians
Alike, those who sleep need to wake up before
It is too late to find a peaceful solution
The Jews in Lisbon marched also intimating
the knew a thing or two two
wishing the demonstrators peace and prosperity
the meaningless
why is it that we who have no connection
with those who have the power of what
gets heard and published.
Today, we drove from Cascais to Lisbon
a drive that usually took half an hour
it took an hour more because of modern time
had upset the calculation
a modern society is measured by how many
cars are on the road at the same time
we who sit at home are in the news reminded
of this by those who call this progress
after this profound observation, the rest is
pointless history is eaten by false history
Sardines in olive oil
A shop in Lisbon exclusively sold sardines
this interested me since my Norwegian mother
had worked at a factory selling tinned sardines
I asked if they had sardines from other country
they didn't but told me in tinned bacalao they
cod fish came from Norway
I noticed sardines in olive oil with the year the tin
was made, began from 1905 to 2024
but the years from 1930 to 1943 were missing
I asked why, but no one knew, I think no one had
noticed the gap
The staff at the shop, when I told them about
my mother was charmed and gave me a couple
of sardine tins from 1944
What a timeless charm Lisbon is
Meticulously set on the face
Of seven hills with eyes
That overlook the Tagus River.
The narrow, winding streets
Tell a story of a culture so distinct
Different in many ways but hung on a single straw
Like the pieces of every cobblestone on the floor.
The sweet sea wind, in every swing
Breathes life into Fado music
Songs of old, worn sailors
Longing for a halt to the complexities of life.
Lisbon City is indeed a charm
Adorned with vibrant street art
That blends modernity and historic depth
A solemn dance to every footstep.
Oslo
I was in Oslo once and saw the old king
riding a horse, but I was a painting of the Danish king
the king of Norway is more moderate
he drives Bentley
The king and I are of the same age,
he looks stylish
in his admiral uniform with gold tresses
I wear a black T-shirt. shirt it has a pocket for my glasses
The t. shirt hangs on the balcony to dry
while I sit bare-breasted on the sofa, waiting for
the t. shirt to dry
it is the only shirt that hides my sagging stomach
The king was in Lisbon two years ago
the embassy
had a garden party, I was not invited, despite
I was the only true seaman among the lot
I blame the posh people at the embassy, who thought
I might ask the king for a bigger pension
As I said,
I was in Oslo many years ago, invited to read
poetry, which I tried to do, but next door
a horn music orchestra was training words that came
out of my mouth, died in the horrible noise
Yes, they had a flight to Lisbon this very afternoon
when the plane landed, I could have kissed
the tarmac, but being a Norwegian, I'm reserved
Whatever you do in life, you can't forget were
you were born
Sometimes writing poetry is my mistake,
Better to embark on a large cargo ship,
Which will take you to Tahiti or Honolulu,
Better give candy to a blue-eyed schoolgirl,
Sometimes writing poetry is my mistake,
Better to cook a chicken with lime,
Better to read the confessions of Saint Augustine
Or spend the afternoon at the movies with people,
Sometimes writing poetry is a strange mistake,
Especially never think that we have talent, genius,
Better to visit Lisbon or Patagonia,
Listen to fado with the Big Dipper.
Parfois, écrire de la poésie est une erreur,
Mieux vaut embarquer sur un grand cargo,
Qui vous conduira jusqu’à Tahiti ou Honolulu,
Mieux vaut offrir des bonbons à une écolière aux yeux bleus,
Parfois écrire de la poésie est une erreur,
Mieux vaut cuisiner un poulet au citron vert,
Mieux vaut lire les confessions de Saint Augustin
Ou passer son après-midi au cinéma avec des gens,
Parfois écrire de la poésie est une erreur bizarre,,
Surtout ne jamais penser que l’on a du talent, du génie,
Mieux vaut visiter Lisbonne ou la Patagonie,
Écouter du fado en compagnie de la Grande Ourse.
What is missing in this city?
What is missing in Stockholm, in Paris,
In London and Copenhagen,
The sun.
What is missing in this city?
What is missing in Paris, in Brussels,
In Honfleur and Geneva,
L'ennui
What is missing in this city?
What is missing in this city?
What is missing in Lyon, Paris, Marseille,
nice people, forgiving people in heaven,
People watching the sea,
What is missing in this city?
What is missing in Paris, Berlin, Lisbon
Or in Rome, Vienna or Sarajevo,
Youth, youth, youth,
A girl who says YES to birds,
A poet who says YES to a girl,
The sun finally, which says: «Yes, I like you as you are».
National day
25 of April Portugal's
national day
It so happened my ship, birthed that day
a night Lisbon didn't sleep
Great Jubilation
whores gave their wares for free
thieves didn't steal
and the bar owner splashed brandy.....
generously into your glass
I came back onboard five in the morn
waving a Portuguese banner
How beautiful and discreet, this port, at night,
When you listen to fado, come that voice, Misia
It becomes deep and mysterious, sonorous,
Its numerous lights are warm as wool.
How enchanting this port, at night, o night
Between the sea and the starry sky that sleeps,
Its illiterate cranes are so stupid, yes,
Yet they really know the pain of the world,
How beautiful, so quiet on the horizon, this port,
When listening to fado, O Misia, my queen,
We want to love you like Lisbon or Porto, now
I understand Rimbaud abandoning poetry.
Qu’il est beau et discret, ce port, la nuit,
Quand vous écoutez du fado, cette voix, Misia
Il devient profond et mystérieux, sonore,
Ses lumières sont chaudes comme la laine.
Qu’il est enchanteur ce port, la nuit, O nuit
Entre la mer et le ciel étoilé qui dort,
Ses grues analphabètes sont si bêtes, oui,
Elles savent pourtant la douleur du monde,
Qu’il est beau, si calme sur l’horizon, ce port,
Quand on écoute du fado, O Misia, ma reine,
On veut t’aimer comme Lisbonne ou Porto, Enfin,
Je comprends Rimbaud qui abandonne la poésie.
If you too, girl
You’re sad, O little girl,
In the streets of Lisbon,
I love your black silence,
O little girl, so pretty,
Your eyes down, little girl,
Know everything about me,
They cry, this life,
O little girl, with your pink sweater,
Lisbon is your capital,
Don’t change, little girl,
Cry again, o saudade,
Without knowing why
I cry in my turn
Seeing you, o little girl,
O Lisboa, O Lisboa,
I am like you, O little girl,
I cry too, o saudade
Without knowing why,
I mourn this love gone,
To see you again one day,
O Lisbon, O Lisboa.
Se você também, garota
Estás triste, minha menina,
Nas ruas de Lisboa,
Eu amo seu silêncio *****
Ó menina, tão bonita,
Olha para baixo, menina,
Sei tudo sobre mim,
Eles choram, esta vida,
Ó menina, com a tua camisola rosa,
Lisboa é a tua capital,
Não mudes, minha menina,
Chora outra vez, ó saudade,
Sem saber por que
Eu choro por minha vez
Ao ver-te, ó menina,
O Lisboa, O Lisboa,
Sou como tu, Ó menina,
Eu também choro, O saudade
Sem saber o porquê,
Eu choro por esse amor partido
Para te ver novamente um dia,
O Lisboa, O Lisboa.
The Adventurer
I don't know any famous people maybe I have met famous people who keep their fame hidden like Madonna who lives in Lisbon, near enough for me to say if someone who doesn't know the place, Madonna is my neighbor.
I know of a man who has been living in Laos and Vietnam for some time, he paints a wonderful picture of the people, wort's and all and he drinks beeraloo cold from the freezer
When I was young and a seaman, the problem was when
The ship birthed was to get time off from work to explore the hinterland and not sit in a down-at-heel bar
drinking with whores, waking up in a pink-painted room
worrying about venereal illness and if the dick is falling off. Going back onboard in the morning light feeling
absolutely pissed off facing another day of long hours and in the evening settling for a book, reading pages upon pages not concentrating, sighing, putting shoes on, and walk
back to the bar with garish colors and cheap perfume.
I swear, I will pack a bag with all my medicines, go to Laos and drink beerallo and eat real food, and be charmed by naturally gracious women
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