YOU CAN'T PUT YOUR FOOT.doc

YOU CAN’T PUT YOUR FOOT

 

You can’t put your foot

on the neck of time

and command all the flowers

to bloom at once.

And the seasons don’t come and go

like one of your tantrums.

And it’s easy enough

to esteem yourself deserving

but how rare it is

to meet someone

who is truly worthy

of what they’re always denied

and be able to recognize in them

the compassion of water in the world.

Free will itself

might be an illusory edition

of a deeper volition

that doesn’t consult us,

and the indeterminate lack of it as well

and when you look at them both

like jewels

in the clear light of the void

they’re still just little bells at a big funeral

where the birds sit unvoiced on the powerlines

like musical notes in the rapture

of an astonishing silence.

You want to be understood

but when have you ever taken care

to mean anything like a clean window

we could all look through

to the other side?

You paint the compound lenses

of your insight

like a telescope

at the opening night

of another highbrow gallery

and wait for good reviews from the stars

to start rolling in

like radiant constellations

in the horrorhope section

of braille newspapers spooled

through a breathless printing press,

and when no one shows up

you melt down like a nuclear reactor

in the mess of your own candle

and complain

that another star in the night

has gone out.

But when did you ever ignite?

And how would you know anyway

if you’ve never looked outside yourself

to see that there’s more drama

in the people that come to the play,

more tragedy, wisdom and humour

more unexotic heroism

than there will be on stage

if your bitter spring ever comes of age?

 

PATRICK WHITE