Deadly Pollen | Page 4

tier?by tier. Melaleuca is a snowstorm?of bloom in a backyard.?Planes arrive from here and there;?holiday makers, the injured?and dead, today's interchangeable?destines. A night club blows up?in a tropical paradise. In the?slipstream above the stratosphere,?fear drifts about the globe
as deadly pollen.
*
The day combustible as a?nightclub. Destruction works?in big, blunt gestures. An?explosion is no rediscovery, it's?return without guide to the?deepest sink hole from whence?hell's laughter issues. A?sucking into nothingness; void?behind the twin masks of?light and dark. Not repetition?but continuance. Pre-beginnings.?A precise point of death?qua death, not infinity but?limitlessness, pain's spectrum.
*
Compression of bees,?shrub-shaped, in proton loops,?on cushioned air. Spring!?See the counter, its bright ticking?with fail-safe growth. Who put?it there? this tubular, tight package,?green and red wires running to?hidden terminals - watch the numerals?flick over, air fill with warmth,?this thing ready to go off at a season's?notice, a bursting forth, flash?of filmic green and bloom?too quick to catch as we exit our?buildings in a rush to see it.
*
Scent makes the air visible,?seasonal; autumn lays its long?scaffolding of shadow under wood?smoke; winter smells of damp?brickwork; spring lifts the lid on?lighter smells - is something?between cleaning fluids or garden.?Only late at night true secrets?and scents are disclosed; summer?tightens. Scent is a map of an?ancient journey. The poem prints -?makes a seal of every season,?its message delivered and read.
An Actual Encounter With The Sun On
My Balcony At France Street
( for Gloria Schwartz )
When the moon slipped its knot?and left a ring for the night to drop?through, and a baggage of stars?thudded on the loading bay?at the other side of the world,
I heard,?"Ho! get up you slack-arse poet,?I want to have a word with you."
It was the sun.
"This is a surprise," I yawned.
"Shouldn't be - you're the one whose?been whingeing about his own personal light."
"I must admit," I conceded, "I?was worried there for a bit."
"Right," answered?the sun. He spat at the window turning?it molten.
"You must know by now Stephen,?I visit with a poet every thirty years or so.?Last time it was Frank O'Hara,
and before that,?Mayakovsky. Can't say it's your turn?but I'll stop by anyway.
You're not a poet for all time but?for your own time. Don't worry about it.
And forget those supposed poets?the M=E=Z=Z=A=N=I=N=E=S as you call them
caught between the floors: they ain't going?nowhere.
So get up and make a cup of tea!"
"Sure, care to join me?"
"Only for a minute," he said, "I've got more?important things to do today, like glinting?off the Hauraki Gulf and the iron-clad poppy?of Sydney Tower.
Oh, that reminds me,?then I'm off to San Francisco to wake up that?ex-girlfriend of yours you keep pissing?off with late night calls and false promises."
By now I could?see the sun was pretty worked up.
"C'mon, forget that crap.?You write some good stuff but you've got to?hang in there, and like me it'll?come to light."
"Thanks sun."
"And knock off the guilt trips and stop?getting pissed (in your Sydney dreams, pal!) you'll?burn yourself out - I recognise the signs."
"Yeah, seems I have been?a little preoccupied."
The sun jumped onto my balcony?outside the window.
"You don't see much of me down here at?POETS' PALACE - do you?
Move over,?this is the only time I get a look in."
I propped myself up?on one elbow.
"Remember, you're not?writing bus-timetables and calling it?'performance poetry' like a few I?could name. Stick with the atmospherics,?the true essence of people.
That's your angle, as mine is now?to brow beat you.
And don't get into this doomsday kick?either, leave such things to the (small minded).
Honestly,?it's straight forward focus."
By now my hangover had?evaporated.
"Hold on sun,?I've a few questions."
"Sorry," called the sun, receding.
"We've had our little talk. Give my regards?to Greece again, if you ever get there."
And he was gone
and I got up to
another beginning, and a day.
Stephen Oliver b. 1950. Grew in Brooklyn-west, Wellington, New Zealand. One year Magazine Journalism course, Wellington?Polytechnic. Radio NZ Broadcasting School. Casual Radio Actor. Lived in Paris, Vienna, London, San Francisco, Greece and Israel. Signed on with the radio ship, 'The Voice of Peace' broadcasting in the Mediterranean out of Jaffa. Free lanced as production voice, newsreader, announcer, voice actor, journalist, radio producer, copy and features writer. Poems widely represented in New Zealand, Australia, Ireland, USA, UK, South Africa, Canada, etc. Recently published, Ballads, Satire & Salt - A Book of Diversions, Greywacke Press, Sydney, 2003. Recently completed a CD of poems and music, titled: KING HIT Selected Readings - poems written and recorded by Stephen Oliver with original music by Matt Ottley designed for international release. He is a transtasman poet and writer who lives in Sydney.
This book review is included by the request of the author,?and with permission of Nicholas Reid:
Stephen Oliver Deadly Pollen [Middletown