A WHOLE GALAXY LIGHTS UP

A WHOLE GALAXY LIGHTS UP

A whole galaxy lights up for the sake of a single planet; for

the sake of a single flower, the entire earth turns itself

into a loom and weaves for a million years.

How many oceans have died to hang one drop of water

at the tip of a blade of grass; and can you see in that blade

the untold dawns and sunsets that have risen and fallen like bread?

How many skies have bloomed and shed themselves

like the petals of blue roses

and how many birds have expired in their songs and wings

and fallen to earth like broken harps

to open up the space and voice within you? Have you

ever considered the endless generations of faces

that have come and gone, weeping themselves slowly into oblivion

like the crying glass of windows

just for the sake of one of your fleeting smiles;

or the billion nights that trembled in their dreams

for the colour of your eyes? And your blood

that is sweeter to you than any wine and floats

the boat of your heart down the rivers of its infinite flowing;

have you ever listened, deep within yourself, to the echo

of the hammers on the anvils of the aeons of volcanoes

that laboured like sacred smithies to pour and purify

all their skill and metal into your living iron? How are you not

in the least pore of your being

this miracle of so much? But tell me, you who can instantly travel

to the ends of the known universe and forever beyond

without leaving yourself, even

as you sit waiting for a bus, or brushing your hair;

what vastness of space and silence

has honed itself to a non-existent point

and entered like a gracious guest the tiny house of your bones and skin

and laid out all these thoughts and passions,

these clothes and jewels like gifts? And there

in the resplendency of the black mirror that illustrates your soul

and holds it up to you like the moon to the moon on midnight waters,

isn’t that the universe you’ve just pinned like a rose to your hair?

Beloved, I have lived ten thousand lifetimes

and discarded them like worn-out shoes,

fallen and risen from the dust of the road over and over again

just to make my way to this moment of you. Eternities have passed

and time itself has grown old and been forgotten

gods and civilizations, known and unknown

have worn away like stones like wildflowers since I first set

my vagrant heart on you, my every step, a grail, every breath,

Jerusalem, following you through the days and nights,

every sea, sky, and desert, your footprint, until I could bathe,

washed clean of myself and the journey

in the resurgent light of your beauty, that fountain

that has turned every atom of my being into a pilgrim

as if a million worlds went off in all directions like rays of light

or fingertips

to touch God’s face

as if they had raised a hand up to their own. Beloved,

where are you when I am so lost

everything looks like a strange home you once slept in for a night

and then abandoned, even the dishes, even the light,

even the small keys to your presence

you keep dropping everywhere like tears

that lock nothing in, nothing out; where are you now,

as I write this, longing for you, turning this beggar’s agony

into words that might rise like a glorious new constellation

full of grace and destiny

over the beautiful dark hills of your seeing

that are your eyes and the woods I wander in. Beloved,

I am your shadow; I am your ghost, coming and going from you

like a gate that yearns to be a wing

on any bird hurled, singing, into the dawn of your smile,

even if it be reflected on a windowpane. You, who are my life,

though a hair’s breadth seperate us, though

no more than the depth of the moon’s reflection keeps me

from drowning in your mysterious waters, I am nothing

but unheeded suffering outside your garden walls, nothing

but a phantom caravan in a desert of worlds outside

waiting to enter with gifts from a distant spirit

for the queen of the city. Beloved, look over your walls

like the moon walking its own heights

and gaze down upon the passion of my tents and fires

as if they were the flowers of the starfields

that snag in your veils of light, happily torn from their own shining

so might they adorn your passage. In your presence,

I am the mystic wind that wants to sport in your hair

and sweep through the valleys and along the curves of your body,

caressing every flute, shrine, and bell of your being

until all of you starts ringing, crazy with joy,

and all your leaves, all your secret lilies,

shudder silver side up in the sunlight after the storm.

Beloved, grant me freedom. Assent. Put an end

to the eloquence of this divine poverty

by blowing me out like a candle flame

that has danced on its own dying long enough. Without you

all my seeing and saying

is a rose and a word I’ve placed

on my own dejected coffin, drifting like an empty boat.

Beloved, open this door of darkness like the first crescent of the moon

and make an end of me in you as you have

so many stars and asylums and longings before me; let me

cross your threshold like a tide you have raised and sent

rushing up your slopes of life within, and when I am spent,

draw me back into yourself like a wave or a breath or a world,

or, deeper yet, this ocean of shoreless oceans that has swayed me into being

without beginning, end, or separation,

this extravagance in the form of the man who loves you.

PATRICK WHITE