Owen Bullock: Roche

My first full-time job was in a pub kitchen. They did bar food and had a ‘posh’ restaurant upstairs for the evenings. I washed dishes, prepped ingredients, made sandwiches. I also became a shoulder to cry on for my bosses’ wife.

I was nineteen and wore a skimpy beard. The chef advised me to “shave it off and grow un again.” One of the visiting salesmen told me, “rub it in yer wife’s doo-dah.”

When I’d been there a few weeks, the chef left. He’d been mis-managing the accounts and all I remember is the boss saying “I’ll break his fucking legs!” I got shuffled into cooking the bar snacks, which I enjoyed—I didn’t have to do so many dishes.

When the new chef arrived, he taught me how to make white sauce and paté. He was a large man and liked to bang on the bench with a broad-heeled knife. He’d served on the QEII and cooked for the Queen. When the old marge tubs on the bench were full of waste, he’d ask me to “take out the gash.” He found a hunk of venison in the bottom of the freezer, which the previous chef hadn’t known what to do with, and made the most wonderful pies.

But somehow the job didn’t seem useful enough to me and I got work in a psychiatric hospital. When I left the pub, they gave me a St. Christopher’s medallion. I didn’t know what to do with it; I sold it as soon as I could.

I was her confidante
but when I left her employ
she said
there’s a lot of things
I could say

by Owen Bullock
Waihi, New Zealand

Owen Bullock: OUT OF THE VALLEY

1.

just about to take off
an autumn leaf
lands on the windscreen

The red echo. The purple glance. The orange hope. The yellow pun.

road trip
in the pause
at the intersection
birdsong

A bumpy road for ten Ks then a sign that says bumpy road. One side of the track washed out. The one lane bridge flooded. In the steep-sided valley a magpie’s call echoes like several magpies.

2.

on the day I have to
go into the school
it’s raining heavily
so my tears don’t show

I make a list of men I admire and their qualities. For the first time, I feel proud to be a man.

shadow
beside the parking lines—
the sign you don’t read

In the supermarket, my partner talks with an ex-work acquaintance without introducing me. It doesn’t matter, I commune with the other men in the store.

above the shopping complex
the wind wand *
and an empty flag pole

* A sculpture by Len Lye.

by Owen Bullock
New Plymouth, New Zealand

Owen Bullock: SUMMER CAMPS

.

Whilst teaching summer school, I stay at a camping ground in Rotorua, at the heart of the geothermal area.

in the scrub
beside the mud lake
a broken gate

I move onto the Auckland Folk Festival. Skies are clear and the sun beats down most of the weekend. No mains power is provided on site this year and the kitchen is closed, so I make black coffee with a Trangia when taking a break from the music.

the gold filling
in the middle of
the blues singer’s song

The organisors have an active recycling policy, but, because contractors won’t handle such small amounts of waste, they ask festival-goers to take any recycling home with them.

leaves
pressed into my skin
after reading so long

by Owen Bullock

New Plymouth, New Zealand