IN THE NAMELESS REALMS OF MY
MINDLESSNESS
In the nameless realms of my
mindlessness
where everything that could be said
has been spoken
without being understood
the multiverse keeps repeating itself
like the decimal point of an
incommensurable.
The needle of an early sixties record
player
worn down like a diamond with cataracts
in orbit around a black LP of the old
celestial spheres
still trying to waltz to the
picture-music of their chandelier tears.
I’m expanding the available
dimensions of poetry
to give myself more lebensraum
without goose-stepping across Russia
as if I had a golden egg up my
proverbial.
I conquer in diaspora like the stars.
And I don’t really care
if anyone believes me enough
to understand this
but if they look into my mind
without a mirror between us
they’ll find their own
as clear and unique and homeless as
space.
And the darkness that scrys
their prophetic skulls
will conform to the lines in their face
like a love poem
deep in the heart of the night
when it’s raining crystal balls.
And the dirt on the window
that was drawing all day
people the size of its thumb
will show its masterpiece to the stars
to be hung like a new constellation.
And the green bud who cut
her throat on the moon
to free the rose in her voice
will speak to her lover
like a scarlet ribbon
around a gift that she meant to send
him.
And you who judge these affairs
as mere rumours of the heart
will come to know
what longing means
when fact falls in love with art.
In the nameless realms of my
mindlessness
there’s a room that is waiting for
everyone
to show up like a door.
And in the vastness of this mental
state
their feet are the threshold and floor
of the last address
of the nightbird in the tree
that waits for the moon like mail.
And you can hear its impassioned reply
from here
like the kite that just flew out your
window
to solo on its own.
If you look the dragon in the eye.
If you’re not afraid
to stand like a stranger in your own
doorway.
If you’re fanatically desperate
enough
to thread the eye of the needle
like a noose in the knot at the end of
the road
where the world stands on the shell of
a turtle
waiting for the big moment to make a
move
taste this thornapple of your own
madness
and I shall make a gift to you
of my freedom and solitude
and everywhere you walk
like a nightwatchman
lamp in hand
the candle will not be lost
on the long road it’s been following
like smoke
and gold will pour from your wounds
like bliss from the ancient ores of
your sadness.
I shall not take you by the hand.
I shall not allure you in the
wilderness.
I shall not walk beside you
like a mountain or a lighthouse
or reassure you when it isn’t
that it was all just a dream.
In the nameless realms of my
mindlessness
there are no holy wars
among the godless telescopes
trying to explain what they don’t
understand
by quoting sacred books
like laws they make up
from the prophetic gossip of man.
There are no teachers.
There are no guides.
No signs.
No starmaps.
No cosmic paradigms
to snare the psyche in its thesis
by reassembling all the pieces
like a butterfly in a spiderweb.
But I will offer you this black pearl
of a new moon
like the primordial atom
of a spontaneous beginning of your own
and from the wellspring of the first
moment of creation
you will know the agony
of the inspiration
and the expanse of the abandonment
in making a world
where all things lead away from you
like stars and people and water.
But you will feel deep in your heart
the intimacy of a stranger’s
gratitude
for the immeasurable giving
of an inexhaustible abyss
that’s been going on for lightyears.
You will stare at the hair in the brush
in front of the mirror
where your dead sister
used to renew her virginity
and you will call out a thousand names
as if they were all the echo of your
own
clones on the telephone
but none of them will answer
the same voice twice
until you’re alone with the Alone
and there’s no need to ask.
Here you will recover
the crazy wisdom of your lost clarity
like the comet of a long forgotten
memory
that will come blazing back into your
mind
and gazing up at it
like a sign from your sister
you will realize
the original nature
of your own mind
is the engine of change
in this world of time and passage
and to have been conceived of once
is enough to outlast eternity.
In this space
the guest does not lament
the lack of a host
but understands it
as the apex of grace
to make him feel completely at home
by leaving him alone
to make it his own.
Does the dream age
into a waking adage of bone?
Are you tempted to wake God up
when you’re sleeping alone?
Are you screaming so high
you’re breaking eardrums like
wineglasses
but no one can hear you
like a dogwhistle
that calls nothing home?
You can’t cling to your misery here
like a voodoo doll
you raised as your own assassin.
There are no bullet-holes in the
mailbox.
And no one gives the dice
a second chance.
Like the wind
when it’s wild in the trees
there’s an address
but no identity.
And no one’s an orphan
because there’s nothing to belong to
that can let go of you
as if you didn’t exist.
The raindrop isn’t separate
and the river isn’t one.
Between the moon and its reflection
between the candle and its flame
between the person and their name
between the chaff and the grain
there’s no distinction.
No one lucid.
No one insane.
And if there’s a routine to follow
it’s that there’s no path
that leads away from you
that isn’t the spontaneous discipline
of the effortless mastery you were born
with.
Inspiration sets up its tent
like the capstone of a pyramid
rooted in wind and sand.
And there’s no way to explain it
because there’s no one
who doesn’t understand.
In the nameless realms of my
mindlessness
the deserts aren’t a way of counting
stars.
And whether you look up at the sky
or down at your feet
the light can’t be measured
in the wavelengths of snakes
that aren’t on the same frequency as
your eyes.
There’s only one law of physics here
and that’s
that everything is a complete surprise.
PATRICK WHITE
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