Tuesday, February 14, 2012

WITH FINGERS OF SAND


WITH FINGERS OF SAND

With fingers of sand, with hands of water
with hearts fuller than apples with night,
we reach out to pluck the orchid on the moon,
to touch beauty on the wing,
the coal swan with feathers of flame,
the shadows that wear our face,
the skin of a waterleaf of gold
that evaporates like an eyelid of dust,
the pilgrim on the smoke-road of the candle,
the black panther in an oildrum,
and the vision is blanched from the seeing
like the albumen of an egg,
the albino leper cooked in the mouth of the moon,
we reach out for what exceeds us,
for the dark thresholds of blood
in the palace of the rose,
the vivid windows of the sea
with their curtains of light and salt,
the green chandeliers of the rain,
the hidden excellence of the early wood sorrel
that whispers to us from its solitude,
shy secrets, indigo birds of paradise
with harps of eloquent feathers,
the laments and deadly night shades
of the alone with the alone in a shadowless abyss.

And there’s the predicate of an unexpected jewel
sewn into the lining of everything;
even the flies are touched by rainbows
and the morning lifts her gown
and wades gloriously through the oilslicks,
hummingbirds in the sour trumpets of the weeds,
jungle parrots painting passion fruit
with palettes of stuttering neon,
hard oyster hearts that bed with pearls. Everyone
reveres the beauty of the wine on the lips
of the unsayable quality of being
that supersedes them, a facet of the turning jewel
that falls like the eyelash of an angel,
a winged samara of autumn dusk
into the seeing, and for a moment as long as life
they touch the pulse of an ageless longing
and feel beating within them
in a panic of wonder and joy,
the radiance of the starbound dove
caught in the throat of the chimney.

Even the worst have known the nightsky reach down
and wipe the stains from their eyes,
or felt embraced by a warm summer rain
that polished their skin like heritage silver
and remembered it for the rest of their lives.
For me, the chalice in the ore is you;
for me, you are all lenses, all mirrors
dewed by the waterveils of the mystery
in the early morning dark before creation
begins itself anew. My heart is seized by the fire-trance
of a sacred silence, the word within the word
as if wax suddenly discovered the flame
whose dancing made its flesh melt in a luminous consummation.
Even seared in the igneous cages of my heart,
an iron tiger baring its worn fangs
to the torment of the staring, when I think of you,
a nightbird with gates for wings
brings me a star and a key
and the bars turn into the pillars of palatial winds,
and an openness lies before me that tastes of lilacs and rain.
For years I’ve been witching for water in hell,
for years I’ve been diving for corpses in quicksand,
living like a squall in a shipwreck
under the eyes of a pleading lighthouse,
and the morning was just the morning
and the night was just the night,
and I thought it would go on like this
until I stared myself to death,
believing there was only the suffering
and the emptiness, and the suffering
and the black, mute bells of the wingless seabirds.
Now there’s a planet that gleams like an eye
in the peacock silks of the twilight,
and a woman standing in the last shadows of the willow
like a doorway, like a ghost on a wharf,
like the depths of an urgent spear.

PATRICK WHITE

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