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 straightforward 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.Oliver’s craftsmanship in his translation of Horace’s ‘Pyrrha’ ode exudes a quiet intensity and a distanced sensuality that fits perfectly into his theme of disillusionment and modernist distrust of beauty. The language used to bring Pyrrha alive is exquisite, capturing her essence as Horace’s femme fatale. Oliver successfully challenges the history of translations, particularly that of Milton, and excels in this endeavor. He skillfully transitions between lyrical richness and spare modern voice, showcasing his versatility as a poet.

The imagery and language in Oliver’s poetry display a mastery that is both unsettling and captivating. From vivid descriptions of nature to architectural forms, his words evoke a range of emotions and contemplations. The use of antipodean flatness and laconic pauses creates a unique texture in his writing, drawing the reader into his world of poetic exploration.

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