Thursday, January 5, 2012

FUMAROLE


FUMAROLE

The beast of a thousand unconsummated yesterdays
born without names in the gutter
roars in the rags of its own blood
for the poxy apricot of the rising moon. My voice
is a guitar without strings, the dark well
of an eclipse that eats the dragon
that has lingered too long in the depths without stars.
The crazy windows in this burning room
plead for a reason, a purpose, a sign
as they weep themselves into weary honey, sick
of the equity of their seeing, the sloppy script
of another dirty winter that scrawled
its drunken name in the amber penmanship
and metaphysical sunsets of nicotine
encrypted like scars or dry creekbeds
in the guestbooks of their sagging eyes. On the sill,
the ashes of birds, of stars, of dead fly hearts
smaller than the nuggets of gold
panned by the convict bees from the feigned tears
of the cocktease flowers who know how
to renew their virginity by giving it up
like a handful of keys to anyone who knocks. Hot ores
adumbrated into the slag of unapproachable islands
and treacherous harbours in chastity belts.
And though I know better, accepting
what I cannot change in this graveyard
of geriatric storms that have blown themselves out
against the implacable glass that disguises itself as the sky
and waits with its decoy of clouds
for the inadvertent sparrow
to dash the nut of its brain against the impassable windowpane,
I long for a heart of brick, a stone of dried blood
worked loose like a tooth from a crumbling temple
to smash my way out of this brittle museum of things,
this menagerie of balanced coffins
and cordless spinal columns
that account for nothing but the unearthly stillness and vacuity
of a reasonable effort to survive surviving
without a taint of life exceeding
their industrious accountancy. And though I know,
how has it not been drummed into me
by suffering the violet penalties
of love and prismatic separations, the madness
of trying to bridge your own mindstream
to the further shore with the peacock rainbows
of midnight oilslicks that let their serpents down
like the hair of a drowning Medusa, and though I know
and know and know the sad alleys
and unforgivable garbage that reeks like an over-ripe moon
in the cul-de-sacs that enshrine the priestly drunks,
did I not once tear my own heart out at their altars,
and wait for a divinity to seize me
like a flower of fire in ice, still, this long probation
that leaves me with nothing to confess
is a skeleton trying to masturbate, a chain of enslaving orbits
hauling the moon by the nose to a vicious market
that bids for exotic desecrations
to gild its impotence with curious compulsions. And my crime?
I ignored the prevalent hypocrisies of improvement
and self-advancement to occupy
my own harvest-throne in the midst of plenty
and raise myself up like a siege of gratitude
on mystic ladders that scaled
the burning towers of the stars. I obeyed
the stratagems of fire that voiced
the assaults of wonder I launched
like occupation fleets against the willing surrender
of my own mind liberated from the sapphire dungeons
of its own birthstone, the inherited castles of quicksand
that betrayed their own foundations. There was no clemency
in the sentence of the passing years
that hung me like a trophy
in a straitjacket of spider-webs, no poetry
in this exile from light, this starless sky
that no one has ever looked upon with yearning,
no music in the rain that falls from this nuclear winter
that nuns the cauldron of a sterile sea. And though I know
my fate might well be righteously imposed
because I played while others toiled, sang and danced
and squandered the abundant summers of my heart
on the impossible empires in a woman’s eyes,
made dice of the stars and rolled them against
the impregnable walls of chance like constellations,
thrilled by getting away with life
while my blood was still green and brave with expectation,
is it just that my shadow should die before me
longing to be buried in the light
as if it weren’t a suicide; is it God, and mercy, and reason and right
that a warrant for my freedom should have been issued
before a law was contrived to contest it
in the meager forums of feeble appetites? Damn me if you must
to the absurd tillage of these forsaken acres,
yoking the moon to a glass plough
that shatters on the prophetic skulls
of an unrocked cemetery opposed like salt
to the impudent resurrection of the dead.
A volcano thrust through the fault in your seed bed
I will install my shadow
like the relic of a sacred nail
in the perilous hole
it will drive
through your unhallowed head.

PATRICK WHITE

NO MATTER HOW FAR


NO MATTER HOW FAR

No matter how far into the past the star travels,
plunging its white fingers into the expanding womb of the past
to pull its own damp head out of convulsive space,
it will never find a beginning, the widening cleft between two thoughts
opening like a mouth full of silence, a sluice gate of thick water,
a dark prelude, the first letter alpha breaking like an eye
out of the eclipsed envelope into a splendour of light
to hang its jewel, its drop of flammable water
from the incredible webs of the night,
to shine alone in the dark with millions,
the elemental heart of an abandoned lover. The void
became a tuning fork and struck itself, became
a nugget of gold and dropped itself into the world pond
sinking like a throne through a center of infinite haloes,
disappearing into the origin of its own undulant pulse,
a fish leaping out of the stillness of the mirror
into the encircling waves of its own event
or an arrow into the target of its own ripples,
or God lost in his own universe without a return address.
Where now is the desolate monkey
forced down out of the trees
to stand up in the high conquering grass to look for leopards
who first shrieked into consciousness
or sat down quietly on his heels
to ponder the odd blue stone of a thought he couldn’t grasp?
Where is he who has gone on expending himself
like the first violin of a tribal symphony
through the blind abyss of the blood all the way to me?
Is there a skull that lies cracked and quarried somewhere,
a fallen idol in a temple of shattered bones,
a small, moldy moon clotted with earth
who was the first to become aware of himself
as a paling star who would be washed out
in the brightening flood of the following dawn? Did he glimpse it all in a flash,
as the seed contains the whole of the tree, the blossoms
the singing branches, the closed eyelids of the apples,
did he see in the lightning gap between matter and mind,
in the first atom of self-brained sentience
all the murderous troupes of civilization
that would walk out of that first step, that progenitive initial
that goes on unspooling the maple samara
of the helical generations down even
into the bloodstreams and wellsprings of the lines of this poem?
Did he see the continuum of his own beginning
moving outwardly in time like a viper
through the oceanic fire-wombs of a nubile cosmos,
the world serpent that would marry the world
with a rib of light? Did he see me as I am this morning,
elaborated in all directions like rain from his watershed,
trying to make lifeboats out of the leaves to survive
this oblique sliding into the depths
of my own gashed being, the vagrant omega
of a maritime disaster morsed between two sibilants,
like an egg between the forked tongue
of a torn chromosome, this feeble S.O.S. I’ve sent back
through the anguish of the years to find me, to find him,
to shut the eye of the circle, a tail
in search of a mouth that could create what it consumes
in a single breath, a single word wholly sufficient
for all eternity, unborn, unperishing?
And it is not enough to say that the peduncle
is lost in the ensuing phylum, the root in the tree, the tree
in the seed and the seed again in the leaves and branches;
am I given eyes and nothing to see, wonder
and nothing to be amazed by, the blue wheel
of a flowering heart and nothing to feel? Homage
to the fallen bell of my unsung ancestor, male or female,
and the way he picked himself up off the ground,
homage to his pendulous walking across the plain;
and the tracks he followed through the luminous mud of his brain,
saying his name with his feet; homage and compassion
for the brute in lunar shock
before the rising of the moon through the startled dark,
homage to the lightning and the firefly
that jarred him out of his uterine revery
like metal from the ore of a stone. Homage
to the horror and grief and genius of the huge hope
he buried in himself with red ochre and bird-bone flutes
like the bodies of his children under the fire and ashes of his cave;
I bring black cherries, wheat, and scarlet poppies,
I bring the immaculate weave of the starfields,
sapphires and silk, and the wisdom of the wind,
the passion of fire, the will of water, the beauty of light,
and the freedom of infinite space,
and I scatter the worlds like opal grains of sacred rice
over the wedding carbons of your baffled remains
and I fill the clay moulds of the footprints you left behind
with the fleets and caravans and flights of mind
that were born of your bruised heel,
your circuitous pilgrimage toward bison and berries, you
the brutal mile zero of the highways through the mountains, you
the first drop of rain in the headwaters of the river, you
the first feather of empathy that danced to fly, you
the first prayer to divine the green valleys of an afterlife
where the silver gazelles came down every night
to the water’s edge, gifts of the great mother’s thighs.
Like a prodigal son returning to the boneyard of his cannibal parents,
without judgment, I bring you the sugars of a ripened mind
and the fat of my sedentary flesh
to gorge on as you wish. And though we shudder with progress
over the excavated skulls in the hovels of the homophagoi,
we unmarrow each other no less. So praise
to your broken, battered, disease-ridden body,
your muscled weapon and your withered breasts
that hung like oriole’s nests from a rack of bone; praise
to the beast master and savage cauldron of your mind
from which you drew the elegant visions of a predator
you charred at the end of your tunnels on lime.
This morning I practice the same art for the same mysteries
on the same dank womb-walls of efflorescent time,
following the spoor of these migrant histories
back to you. Faster than light I must outrun myself to regress,
and I come with poems and paintings and problems
and a forwarding address.

PATRICK WHITE