WONDER AND PAIN

WONDER AND PAIN

 

Wonder and pain.

Strange mix.

The mind’s beginning.

Same as now.

The use of life is life.

The use of mind is mind.

I’m talking in voices again.

And these are not my eyes.

These are not my metaphors.

Who knows where they come from?

They’re just there

like seeds on the wind

looking for somewhere to root.

Like stars streaming through space

for millions of lightyears

until they find a way

to unmask their intelligence

like a surprise birthday gift to the blind.

A mind that urges seeing into being

not this not that

not one not two

not an I not a you

but an elation of insight

that deepens the mystery of being here

at the short end of the truth

that keeps making us out to be liars.

Wonder and pain.

If we keep making things up

to explain what we’re doing here

like something you’d say to a child

when she asks

just before you turn the bedroom lights out

and leave the door ajar

maybe it’s because

they’re making us up

as they go along as well.

Maybe we’re the nightlight

they leave on in the hall

to keep the monsters away.

Maybe we’re their myth of origin

just as we see

in the things of the world

the place where we begin.

The star.

The light.

The eye.

The eye.

The night.

The lamp.

Helical rope ladders of DNA

that climb up out of the starmud

like snake-charmers

to an open window

that looks out at the stars in astonishment

and forgets how to speak

and then remembers the suffering

it took to accomplish this

and can’t say enough

to make the means

justify the ends we seek

to transcend ourselves creatively.

The mind is a tolerant mother

and lets things grow in all directions

simultaneously

knowing all roads

don’t lead anywhere

she hasn’t already been.

Like a star of dark matter

deep in the heart of the light

that can’t keep up with the future

without referring to first things last

the mind isn’t the sign of an insight

with a long complicated past.

 

PATRICK WHITE