SOMEONE'S CUT THE TONGUES OUT OF THE BELLS TONIGHT

SOMEONE’S CUT THE TONGUES OUT OF THE BELLS TONIGHT

Someone’s cut the tongues out of the bells tonight.

Even the silence isn’t singing to itself.

The windows are generously tolerant of intruders

but I’m locked into the splendour of my isolation

empathizing with things I don’t love.

Full moon. Fruit moon. Moon of berries and grain.

I thought I’d be happier at this time in my life,

but I’m threshing a harvest of shadows

for having sowed all my wild oats on the moon.

I’m intrigued by the fragrance of occult raptures on the air.

Dark intensities that can only end in immolation.

Black roses that only bloom in fire. Mystic disobedience

that lifts the flesh and blood taboos off

whatever comes to it naturally

as a late night 24-7 convenience store

or the fire that started in the kitchen of the Chinese restaurant

three doors down from my apartment yesterday.

Late night moods. The mind dogpaddling in its immensities.

Heritage town standing down from its fieldstones.

No drunks on the street, and all those angry voices

I didn’t recognize, gone home to sleep off their disappointment.

I sit like an air traffic comptroller mindwatching

behind these panes of glass as Arcturus goes down

over the tar paper rooftops I poetically associate

with clouds, stars, seagulls and hand-held mirrors of rain

after a thunderstorm has shattered its reflection in them

like a love affair that wasn’t going anywhere.

Doing time on earth, but of little consequence.

The bank across the street makes me feel depreciated.

Ask me this moment what legacy I’ve left

for the half century I’ve laboured creatively here

and I’d probably answer indignantly, a garage sale,

then reassure you by saying, for a good cause,

and mostly mean it, and partially wish I didn’t.

PATRICK WHITE