BRUTAL BLUE OF TWENTY BELOW

BRUTAL BLUE OF TWENTY BELOW

Brutal blue of twenty below,

a serial killer with angelic eyes.

The light slashing off the snow

like sabres in full gallop reaping throats.

Even the windows going through

a mini nirvanic death-in-life experience

to catch a glimpse of the fireflies

of enlightened diamonds

that let them warm their hands awhile

around their blazing, hoping

they’ll catch on and be back soon.

O sweet one, hurt one, wounded blue rose,

your eyelids have turned brittle in the cold.

Your heart’s a baby mammoth

caught in a glacier

that’s exposing you to the wolves.

Your tears flow like slow rivers of glass

all the way to the sea that rejects them

like holy oil on the wrong forehead.

Blood on the snow, lipstick on kleenex,

a haemorrhage on the bedsheets

at four in the morning,

a flag of the rising sun

flying over the miscarriage of a virgin birth.

You’re the Pearl Harbour that sank

your volcanic battleships in a sneak attack

in a sea of shadows on the moon

and now you’re waiting for the birds

to seed them with new life

like islands stuck in port for the duration,

waiting for prophetic skulls

to wash up like coconuts on shore

where you go bobbing for the head of Orpheus.

And you’ve learned that your body

can only say so much

and you’re stuck in the doorway

like a word in your throat

for something you can’t quite

put your finger on like a braille starmap

of where to go next,

a morning dove

in a chimney,

out looking for land,

smoke without fire,

that won’t sully your shining with creosote.

And it seems your life’s gone on ahead of you

into the starless abyss of a forwarding address

and left you as homeless as a loveletter

in an abandoned mailbox

that’s beginning to get the feeling

no one’s going to answer you back.

And even though you’ve mastered

several zodiacs like Druidic sign language,

the finger ogham of L.A. Gangs,

to make yourself well understood to the mob,

you keep being reborn facing west

and you don’t know how to turn

the baby around in the tomb.

Your singing voice is baffled

by the dawn that rises at midnight

like the silence of a zoo with open cages

where someone let out all the animals out

like nocturnal animals to fend for themselves.

And it’s not hard to miss

the forty days and nights of flood in your eyes

you’ve been lost at sea

like an ark washed out of your tears.

And now you appear here like Morgana la Fey

trying to con Merlin out of his art again

by thawing you out of that pillar of ice

you’ve been locked into

like a butterfly in an ice age

that’s booked like Alice in of the Looking Glass.

But I’m not the Mad Hatter, Merlin

or the Wurm-Reiss interglacial warming period.

Nor yet an aristocracy of trees

in the democratic grasslands

of a Saharan savannah

where the deserts come

like crude beasts slouching toward Jerusalem

for the restoration

of their delusions and mirages

in a worn-out hourglass

with eyes in the sides of their heads.

And even the crazy wisdom

that drips from the tongues

of enlightened clowns like rain

from the gutters of a house

that’s been stuffed with too many leaves

from the book of the trees with knowledge

can sound like utter foolishness

by the time it traverses the universe

to bridge the gap

between your mind and your ears.

So I’ll just suggest you start listening

to that small, inner voice of yours

that’s been speaking

softly to you for light-years.

You know, the one you keep ignoring

like a candle among the illuminati

whenever you can’t take your own advice

and go looking for mentors and gurus

like a first magnitude star

seeking the advice of flashlights.

Stop looking at stardom from the outside

and turn the light around

until you come to the omnidirectional edge

of the known universe

and then instead of balking

on the threshold of the gateless gate

take your shoes off

as if you were going swimming

and plunge that torch

you’ve been carrying for so long

into the fathomless darkness ahead

like a sword you’re tempering

in the great night seas and watersheds of life,

not the wishing wells

you’ve been exorcising like steam

trying to cool your demonic magma

into the islands of the blessed in the mindstream.

Be brave. See what the oldest stars see

on the growing edge

of the expanding universe.

Nothing but darkness before them

and nothing for a lifeboat

a starmap or lighthouse

but the shining they brought with them

like those bioluminescent fish

that find their own way of illuminating

the sunless depths of the sea

where each is their own north star.

Here you deepen the darkness more

with your eyes open

than you can with them closed

like coffins in a graveyard of eclipses.

Here the light of one star

doesn’t fall upon another

to enlighten it like a wounded flower

at the side of road in a tragic attempt

to catch the eye of what’s passing it by

only to render itself ripe for the picking.

The clear-eyed light of the void

is as invisible as space

and hidden as time

under an executioner’s hood

whose blood runs bluer than death

when something gets in it way

like the lightning flash

of the double-bladed axe of the moon

falling on the nape of your neck

to separate your head

like a prophetic skull

from the long wharfs

of its earthbound mooring.

Here the solid becomes real,

and the corpse of thought

is reanimated by insight

like a nightlight in a morgue

like a canary in a coal mine

like a firefly with a longer lifespan

than the flash in the pan of a starmap

that thinks it’s the beginning of a gold rush

when it’s just the same old iron pyrite in chains

that you walked in here with

your your heart up your sleeve

like a dreamcatcher

in a broken windowpane.

I’d give you the answer

to life and death and love if I had one

that wasn’t just another

rusting weathervane on the roof

trying to lay a windproof cosmic egg

with a cast iron flight plan

to improve the direction of prayer.

But what would be the use of it

even if I had one that wasn’t seized

upon the axis of the turning world

like a bird wheel that’s lost its bearings?

But you’re a pretty girl with cold blue eyes

this winter sky that drives its icicle

through your heart like a sword

you keep deluding yourself

you’re falling on like a samurai

to uphold the honour of your defeat

at your own hands in Tokugawa Japan

is jealous of.

So I’ll tell you what I tell myself

not for love, or art, redemption,

or a polyp’s place

in the Great Barrier Reef of history,

not out of ignorance or enlightenment

when the silence snatches my name

right out of the mouth of my solitude

like a baby hawk in a crown of thorns

tearing the heart out of a morning dove

like a locket of blood; say

what I say when no one is listening

to the rain on the roof with me

and there’s only a homely echo of longing

in the valleys of death I’ve passed through

like the blade of bird slashing through

the air of its wounded passage.

There is no message.

There is no meaning but that

you make for yourself

on your way to finding one.

Ignorance and wisdom

write and paint

in the same creative medium.

The heart is a fire alarm

for arsonists and poppies alike

Tattooed snakes on a scaffolding

of burning ladders aspiring to dragon fire.

Angels in the ash buckets

of Icarian over-achievers

who fell to their deaths

from the skyscrapers of heaven

like an accidental gargoyle

from a demonized Gothic church.

Just to be walking around on the earth

huddled in your flesh and bones,

or swimming with stars

through the white-water

of your own mindstream,

or salting your own good nature cynically

until the baby gets turned around in the womb

and you look upon birth

as nature’s way of keeping death going.

You can curse. You can bless.

You can live like a heretic in joy.

Or die like a saint in rage.

From a single wavelength of thought

you can grow a thirty foot oracular python

you end up consulting

about everything you do

as if it had already been done

by somebody else with a bigger snake than you.

Or don’t blink until the stars do.

No matter. It’s your face.

You can wear it anyway you want to.

But just to be here, do you understand?

To have passed through

so many lion gates already

that were only meant for you to enter by,

whether you came in through

the backdoor or the front

or through the window like moonlight,

or a thief that did b. and e.s from the inside out.

You’re indebted to the roads you’ve walked.

You’re indebted to the things you’ve seen,

the elements, the moon

and what it revealed to you,

and you’re way in over your head

in what you owe to the ocean,

trees, stars, the children who

came and went like fireflies

before and after you.

They’re all the embodiment of you.

And you, you’re all

that they’ve achieved to date

and they’re neither guilty

nor innocent of you.

Because everything in this universe

is complicit with everything else

including the judges,

and that means there’s no one

to answer to

but your own questions

and when you do

you’re only ratting yourself out to you

like a woman hanging out laundry

singing an illicit love song under her breath.

All this and everything that’s missing

the physics, the math, the art,

the myth, the mystery,

the lyrical picture-music of your mind,

all the wisdom, the ignorance,

the cosmological theory of you

shape-shifting through your own space and time.

This is the starmud you were born of.

This is the chaos and order of you.

This is the harmony.

This is the dissonance.

This is the house of pigeons

that would rather be haunted by doves.

This is assent. And exile.

This is the lost and found of existence.

This is where you come to claim yourself.

And this is where you give it back.

This is where the losers

aid and abet the winners

by wanting to be one of them

and when they can’t even manage that,

hope, at least, they’ll inherit their afterlife.

Now take everything I’ve said

and throw it up in the air

and let the wind winnow

the chaff and the grain alike.

What will root will root.

And who knows what bloom

will come of that?

When you’re ploughing

and sowing the moon

as I am here with all these words

I occasionally look up from my labour

when my blade strikes a rock

and remind myself

from a lunar point of view

at the other end of the telescope

I’m looking at you through

just to be walking around on the earth

making tracks in the snow

no one’s ever walked on before

is proof positive

you’ve got the right stuff.

And even to live in vain here is enough.

PATRICK WHITE