Friday, November 2, 2012

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, mouldy 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 ocher 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 molds 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 practise 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

SCOURING THE PATINA OF TIME OFF WITH STARS


SCOURING THE PATINA OF TIME OFF WITH STARS

Scouring the patina of time off with stars
the way I used to grind pyrex plates
with varying grades of carborundum
down into telescopic mirrors, then silver them
with a vapour of aluminum to add
to the luster of their parabolic eyes.
Been looking into the darkness so long
I’m beginning to shine on my own.
Now from moment to moment
there’s as much darkness coming out of the light
as there are black holes sand-blasting
the hour-glass shape of this bubble of the multiverse
with firestorms of desert stars as I make my way
from one oasis to the next where the mirages
wander in out of the night to drink
from the reflections of their own faces
with hands cupped like the hulls of leaking lifeboats.

I don’t believe a life of delusion is any less painful
than a life of enlightenment, even if
your scarecrow self is finally standing naked
under a full moon that’s come to realize
that an orbit isn’t the same as an enlightenment path
that can loop back on itself like a snake or a shoelace
or the retrograde motion of Mars, without
wandering off the road you were meant to walk
because that’s the way you went. Give them both
sixteen ounce gloves and let reality
have it out with delusion in eternity
like two siblings of the same dark mother
trying to get some rest from the racket
after giving up on interceding
by putting some distance between them
light years out of earshot of the nightbirds
that have been longing for her return ever since.

Even the first bliss of the blossoming of illumination
grows sad if it’s not wholly shared like an orchard
with everyone as the wind turns around like a fist
flowering into a more open-handed approach to life.
Enlightenment is in everyone like a wavelength
is in a particle when no one is watching.
And if today you’re an angel in a coma of ice
tomorrow the diamonds will fall out of your dark halo
and slowly thaw you out as you get closer to the light
like a comet plunging into the sun like the vapour
of a bridal veil you’ve finally shed like a snakeskin
that had to come off like the white-out of the eclipse
you were living, to see the stars that were rooted
in the darkness within emerging out of your own starmud
like waterlilies and larkspur and the peony buds
of the remote observatories on cold mountaintops
breaking into life like planets at a suggestion from the ants.

Stations of our perishing, perhaps. Phases of the moon
topping my skull up again like the cup that she drinks from
with the crazy wisdom of the lunatic she takes for a companion.
First crescent after the crone. Death’s door left ajar
to let a little of the light out for those of us
who like to walk down long country roads alone at night
brindled by shadows, runged by black flames
like ladders of prophetic fire with nothing left to lean on
but the event horizons of their own imaginations
exploring the inevitable exits and entrances
of the passage of life like a waterclock of stars
descending the dark stairwells of the night with the maple keys
to the secret cellars where they age the best wine
by letting it stare into the dark so long
it begins to shine like a blind dream with a light of its own.

PATRICK WHITE