IT ISN'T THE STAR THAT IS SHINING.doc

IT ISN’T THE STAR THAT’S SHINING

 

It isn’t the star that’s shining,

it’s your mind;

it isn’t the wind that’s blowing,

the flower blooming,

the sky that is gloomy,

the doorbell that is ringing,

it’s your mind.

Where else but in this unwhere

without a cognitive sign

in the black mirror

that clarifies the shining

is the whole thing happening?

And even the mind itself

is a mere missive of the mindless

that hangs this delirium of a world as you sleep

from the end of your nose

and breaks into crows of laughter

when you wake up.

You see a body.

You look for a mind

you can recognize

in the patterns of breath

on the cold glass

that smudges the view

through the windowpane.

And for a moment your emotions

are an intuitive weathervane

well beyond the wind

out of reach of your sails

as you assess each star’s affinity 

and adorn your reflection with mirrors.

And you open your mouth like a keyhole

and take a peek

into the diary of the other

and warm the old bed with the hot coals

of your firewalking simulacra

dancing again with the demons

as if they’d finally got the joke.

But it’s all still just you

priming the flowers

of your own illusions

to summon the bees on demand.

You’re drunk on the dreamwater

of an inexhaustible mirage

as you kiss your own skull on the lips

to sex the dead

who go witching

for the blood of martyrs

like broken wishbones on a windowsill

that haven’t come true yet.

But don’t feel too bad.

We’re all doing it all the time

even me, even now,

dropping this dime on myself

as if I expected a reward for the truth

that acquits me like a chameleon

in a shapeshifting court

that changes its testimony like a river

without any banks

approaching the sea.

Egypt was built on less

than it takes to convince me

that what I know of a self

I can count on

is just a imaginary guest

trying to do his best

to be as thankful as salt

for the place he’s been exalted to

by the spacious host

of a palatial water-table

entertaining illustrious delusions.

Do the scorched stones of Carthage

remember their weeds?

Have the birds returned

to look for seeds in the spring?

There’s something uncanny about logic

in the midst of all these

dispossessed cornerstones

scattered like dice

that don’t know where to begin

or what to uphold

roll after roll

seven come eleven

sooner than heaven

can go off

like a firebell from hell

against the odds of a wall

that’s already come down.

I don’t cherish my misery enough

to make it the cosmic topic

of my local newspaper

like the birth of a new religion.

So I asked God

if I believed in her

and she said, “NO”.

It was the only proof she had

that I’d been faithful

to a god that wasn’t there.

 

PATRICK WHITE