O THIS IS HARD, THIS IS HARD, THIS IS HARD

O THIS IS HARD, THIS IS HARD, THIS IS HARD

O this is hard, this is hard, this is hard. I pulled

the mandrake out. I heard it shriek. Ginseng

does the same thing out in the woods in spring.

It tries to sing but it loses control of the words

that come out of its mouth. You rub the genie

in the lamp after it’s put the kids to bed and it’s given

them what they wanted that won’t hurt them

as you wait to see, by God, you do, what happens next.

Hey, I think you just got included in a poem

dogpaddling in infinity here with me a bit but it’s ok,

we float. Sting like a butterfly. Dance like a bee.

No my tumour hasn’t reversed that. This is me.

This is what makes Muhammad Ali truly great in my mind.

He showed you his victory. And his effortless defeat.

Like a pulse on an electrocardiograph you can trust.

It’s his. Not mine. I’m not so sure about mine,

but I’m trying, and that’s all you can really ask of a human.

Bubbles and candles and wine. And a dolphin

from time to time. I’ve had mine, and it was beautiful.

Sublime as the moon in the birch tree groves

as if you were listening to an echo of the Druids

shine, shine, shine out in fireflies and lightning bolts

that are keeping the fire fed for the night

as you throw pieces of your life into it like salt

to watch it flare up green. Robin of the Hud,

and his merry men. Brief spirit of my solitude,

a flash in the pan. Or as Dogen says about as much

as you can say about life and humanity, no more

than the moon reflected in a drop of water

hanging from a heron’s beak in the dark and the light.

I added that last part because it’s the way I speak.

Are you listening to the same picture music I am?

Seek. But don’t make a big deal out of it. Take your time,

look around, find a place to sit down. Make yourself

at home. But you put the next pot on if

you’re lucky enough to get the last cup.

Bathroom’s over there beside the starmap.

Drink up. There’s more where that came from.

A whole pot. Remember the gold scars I told you about?

They mean a lot. Root fires screaming in a choir of ginseng.

Soft, gentle things like the fragrances of time

from a flower with a tumour in the dark trying to bloom

with the music and the moon as it always has.

PATRICK WHITE