EVEN WHEN I'M DOWN, YOU'RE A FIRST MAGNITUDE ECLIPSE

EVEN WHEN I’M DOWN, YOU’RE A FIRST MAGNITUDE ECLIPSE

Even when I’m down, you’re a first magnitude eclipse.

No one I had rather stand in the shadow of than you.

Even at high noon, when I’m ingathered like black wheat

into the siloes of my dark abundance, and the sundials

can’t tell what time it is, you’re the midnight in my house well

that makes the stars more beautiful for having disappeared

from the bright vacancy of the day into this deeper darkness

where the blood rushes to my eyes to stand at the window

beside my heart, and be amazed by your moonrise

I couldn’t have anticipated were I a Mayan astronomer in orbit.

Or the third eye of the Hubble sifting through the rubble

of the old temples to the gods we abandoned

and left to the snakes and the swallows to make of what they will,

as if we could take any of these prophecies that have come true, back.

I’m turning you like a black diamond in the light,

and I’m listening to your dark harmonies like wavelengths

that have traversed great abysses like the gypsy photons

of a gamma ray burst with the power of ten billion suns

going off all at once in a rapture of radiance

as lethal as enlightenment. You bring out

the snake-charmer in me and I want to sing to you

as if all these crows had burning guitars for voices

and the choirs of the dumbstruck doves

were switching from acoustic to electric

when they see how you sway

like the matrix of space and time to the music,

the flying carpet of a dangerous grace,

the membrane of a new world about to explode into hyperspace.

And, yes, my ego is afraid of the agonies of clarity

it might have to endure like the excruciating transformations

of a mirage among constellations, a firefly that expires

like the wick of a candle in a squall of stars

that knows the timing is just as crucial

as the content of the light when it’s too early

for the bud of the black rose to bloom yet,

and if you want to see deeper into the dark

you can’t pry the petals of a matchbook open

before it’s their moment to shine. But black lantern

I may be, blind, empty, looking for my mind with my mind

and losing it in the glare of its own light,

and though I’ve gouged my eyes out to find it,

yet when I think of you, you fill my eyeless homelessness

with billions of unnamed stars with habitable planets

and shepherd moons keeping the secrets of life to themselves

like black pearls in the lockets of oyster shells

opening their mouths like old calendars of stone

to sing the praises of the new moon on this event horizon.

I may be the holographic projection of a fridge magnet

stuck on the two dimensional skin of a black hole

in the great watershed of the Conservation of Data Principle,

but when I’m flatlining like that, mirage, or no,

you’re the third dimension I keep manifesting in.

You’re the occult jewel that has fallen

from my black halo of comets into the sun

that shines at midnight. You’re Immersion.

Ingathering. Illumination. Dispersal. You put flesh

like loaves and fishes on the skeletons of the dragon’s teeth you sow

and every abyss that ever echoed the silence of the nightbirds

that had given up their longing like a begging bowl

is brimming over the rim of my skull cup like a full silo.

All my mirages are drowning in their own reflections

like fountain mouths of real water on the moon,

trying to wash all these deathmasks off

like so many visions of the world that stuck

like the dust of the road clinging to my eyes

like gusts of stars that make me want to weep

to polish the shining in the dark mirror

that’s looking at you like the occult light

at the end of the tunnel of my reflecting telescope

so that even when I’m down, I’m a miner with hope

buried deep underground in this chamber of mystic diamonds,

where I’m painting picture-music in the carbon

of my own charred bones, the kissing stones

of my prophetic skulls wiping lipstick off the petals

of a black rose, face paint off the eyes of all my sacred clowns,

to celebrate the dawn of the new moon pearling under my eyelids.

PATRICK WHITE

LIVING ON A PLANET THAT KILLS MORE PEOPLE THAN IT HEALS

LIVING ON A PLANET THAT KILLS MORE PEOPLE THAN IT HEALS

Living on a planet that kills more people than it heals.

And the most dangerous of predators, our own ideals

turning on us like ingrown hairs, solar flares the wind

blew in our faces without any of the veils or auroral graces

that used to adorn our amazement at what our eyes

in creative collaboration with victimized ions, could do

with the last breath of an expiring sun god to make it

mystically beautiful and awe-inspiring. Just

to be a witness to it was enough to keep your mouth

shut for the next ten thousand years, the silence

before the sublimity of being in the presence

as convincing to the farmer as it was to the astronomer.

As civilization progresses into an improved savagery

and people grow more bovine in their living rooms

as the one-eyed liar at the nadir of the third eye

entrances them into believing they’re still

grazing in the starfields of genetically modified astroturf

they were raised on, slowly, from a moon cow’s point of view

it’s beginning to dawn on people that civilization

is nothing but the history of war since Sargon of Agade

first turned the plunder of cattle and women

into the military imperialism of the few against the many

by staying like a parasitic cosmic egg laid

on the pineal gland of a host caterpillar so civilization,

mimetic word, a cattle prod, an axe, and an abattoir,

is coming to be seen for the death trap that it is.

Muddy Waters, there’s anotha mule kickin in yo stall.

I grew up in an impoverished neighbourhood

where the garbage cans were full of people

but I swear, and I’ve seen a lot I wish I hadn’t,

I’ve never seen so much rot, corruption, and ignorance,

lacking even elementary street smarts, as I do

in the portulent politicians and their fanatically kempt hags

that make you feel so sorry for their hairdressers,

and the tailors that have to fit them like a hidden agenda

of hate and greed, oozing through the seams

of their shapeshifting, deformed-fitting suits.

Makes you want to stick the old peace sign of the sixties

down your throat and throw up. Or pack up

a small tent, like a refugee or an emigrant

and get in line with the rest of the waterlilies

who’ve finally given up on trying to turn

the festering swamp into something redeemably beautiful

and would rather be homelessly lost among the stars,

floating down the Milky Way with wild black swans,

than sit like the eggcup of a crown on the skull

of a false prophecy missing more than one link in its evolution.

And if you think not to be appalled by the stink of the world

is a kind of experienced wisdom, a seasoned outlook,

then I might suggest that you’ve aged like offal

complicit in the contagion of worms in the grass

where the children play on the swings. And your last best hope

is that your eyes have retained some of the original innocence

of the fool that you used to be,

before the Medusa turned them to stone

and the colour flaked off like the irises of violated covenants.

Radical in the sixties, I was into self-creative destruction,

tallowing sand candles out of napalm and beeswax

that went off like fifty calibre lipstick shells in your face.

I occupied. I dropped out. I blew my own mind

more than once just to make sure the bridge was burning

by the time I got to the other side of my own mindstream

and no one was following me like another blistering ideal

that got thrown like acid in the maculate face of the full moon.

It was easier to believe in everything back then

than to make peace with myself even now,

though I know it’s just one illusion dead set against another

and I’m sitting naked in the Himalayas alone at night

trying to hatch a new cosmic egg for myself

or at least a new cosmology for this glass third eye

I’ve ground like a lens or the mirror of a reflecting telescope

with gritty carborundum down to within an angstrom of perfection

just to be on the same wavelength as quicksilver and diamonds

when it comes to seeing things that don’t easily disappear.

Now I can see the stars dancing clearly from the inside out.

I’m looking for an abandoned observatory on the top

of the world mountain standing on the shaky cornerstone

of a snapping turtle, and I’m not being driven out this time,

exiled among exiles, like some scapegoat beaten

like an objective correlative for what is most ugly in humans

that don’t sacrifice themselves for their own sins.

I’ve been leaving of my own accord for the last thirty light years

of this wilderness experience for the wind knows where.

And I still care. And I still help the waywards of life

that blow across my path like losing lottery tickets

and one winged butterflies trying to fly

like the unbound page of a book with half a wingspan.

I still fight with words and actions that have been blooded

like Damascene swords in the sacred forges of my infernality.

I’ve gone on exploring the elusive dark energy

of my expansiveness long after the universe went out

and sight stopped being a kind of love as lucid

as the imagination on a good seeing night for the sky bound.

But as my compassion has grown deeper, more holistic

and mystically specific simultaneously so has the sadness

of feeling so many suffer the indistinguishable pain

of simply being alive to endure the agony

of cauterizing their cosmic wounds with the very stars

they wished upon a heart break ago when the waterclock

broke like an ice-age dam and the baby mammoth

was washed away like starmud in a glacial flood

of Pleistocene tears. And life seems so randomly perilous

in the way it maims and kills the body and the mind,

it seems even the wise and the sublime die as surrealistically

as the sarcastic mentors of trash and trivia

trying to distract our attention away from our dilemma

with cheap thrills and punchlines about the meaning of nothing

so we can’t feel the house burning down around us

until we’re reminiscing in our urns,

as if we were still haunted by eyes in the dark

like some lingering significance to our demise.

Lachrymae rerum. Sometimes I think the mute rocks

don’t just speak, they weep like stars

for the things they’ve seen like the headstones

of prophetic skulls in a cemetery of ancestral asteroids.

An abandoned observatory, yes, the jewel in the lotus,

and a large garden where I can grow my own constellations

like esoteric zodiacs of asters and sunflowers

and a lover I can bed down with like an equinox

when our celestial equators intersect our ecliptics

at the equinoctial colures of our cosmic G-spots

and we can implode like supernovas in each other’s presence

just for the pure joy of immolating ourselves in bliss

to renew the tenderness of the fireflies who know

there are no limits to how far we can take this.

PATRICK WHITE

AND THIS NIGHT

And this night that is ending,

bruising into the blue of an impossible rose,

and the windows opening their eyes to the light

that pales the stars from the sky like dreams;

and a man trying to keep the starving candle in his skull

from going out, the emptiness of the dark from demanding

oblivion from the day, the mouth of the morning

no beginning, but the start of a busy grave;

how can he tell his heart what his eyes already see

in the mirrors that mourn like hired grief,

some distant galaxy expanding into space,

some island of light in the forsaken depths of time,

that he’s already the ghost of a future memory,

that a silo of ashes isn’t enough to feed the flame

of the fire he’s cherished in the boat of his hands

like a wounded bird he taught to sing for years,

and how to fly higher than the world is kind

like a hawk with broken wings, or an injured mind?

I see eyes in the dark soaked up like rain,

wildflowers in a field, the keys of unbound clocks,

and they’re staring at me on a rocky precipice alone,

the lip of a vast abyss where even the winds don’t go,

and they seem to know who I am, and why I must suffer

more deeply than the words of an eloquent man

who no longer answers his pain in silver tongues

but stands voiceless in the gulf of the silence before him,

mute, broken, baffled, a ladder stripped of rungs.

PATRICK WHITE

WON'T MEAN MUCH IF YOUR EYES AREN'T OPEN IN YOUR BLOOD

WON’T MEAN MUCH IF YOUR EYES AREN’T OPEN IN YOUR BLOOD

Won’t mean much if your eyes aren’t open in your blood.

If the stars can’t see you because you don’t know how

to read them poetry in the small cafes of your heart

accompanied by spoons and plates and broken goblets

of the cheap house wine that smash just like love affairs

dashing your skull against the rocks, hoping the mermaids come back.

If you can’t hear in the parking lot of a raucous industry

the colours of your emotions, you’re a deaf chameleon

and who could make you listen to what you can’t listen to

even if you had enough people who loved you around you

to want you to try to listen to your own tears when you cry?

Your ear on the same wavelength as a corrugated tin roof,

maybe you can see what I’m trying to say to you

if you close your eyes, and just listen to the rain without

trying too hard to make a big effortless effort to be

auditorily enlightened by the racket of your delusions.

I can’t remember when my life stopped being my own

and I went to bed one night, and I was as human as my toes are

and I awoke, I was merely the afterbirth of a visionary

I didn’t recognize, as my eyes were being igneously wrung

from a cope of dark ore like stars out of the distant hills.

Not a lot of self-respect from the beginning, maybe

it wasn’t that hard becoming everyone and everything else,

and I was a prime candidate for effacement

but when I looked into the mirror of my

ten inch, equatorially mounted, clock-driven, reflecting telescope

I used like a canning jar to capture and mount stars and fireflies

on a black velvet starmap, all I could see

was this abyss staring back at me that couldn’t say

where I’d gone, but the last I thought I heard

was that I got a job as a janitor in an hourglass

sweeping mirages out of a desert of private school stars.

I say what I see as it occurs to me spontaneously.

And I’m compelled to say it without hesitation

so the vision isn’t tainted by the colour of the jewel

it’s passing through, from one eye to the next, ad infinitum.

No light pollution in the shining, though there’s something

about the idea of purity that continues to appal me

because I never had so much against chaos from the beginning

and I sense a deep hatred of all that is soiled and flawed,

in which case, I’d rather be an outlaw than one of these monks

who disdain me because I can’t help seeing their discipline

as uncreatively redundant. Eventually, if they’re blessed,

all our faces are going to fall off by themselves

like the scabs of sunspots that healed the wounded light

like a wildflower shedding its petals like nurses’ caps

and deathmasks frozen like a moment in time meant

to last forever though we go on being estranged by them forever.

Uncanny transformations of the solid into the real.

Maybe it’s time to let the mindstream flow as it will

and let the burning bridges of our delusions cross us for a change

to get to the other side of a life that’s only got one bank

and it’s as clear as space, we’re not even standing on that.

Hang on. Let go. It’s just your hand opening and closing

like a door in a dream, and you’ll find your falling

just as fast as you ever were and if you were to ask your eyes

they couldn’t tell in this vastness whether your were falling up or down.

When you’ve dismantled all you’ve desired,

post neo-deconstructionism sets in like spiritual rigor mortis

and you can’t tell if you’re sleeping with the living or the dead

when you haven’t got your mask on. You can wear holes

in your shoes, and windows and carpets, pacing

like a waterclock of the heart in an hourglass of waiting

like a boy at the edge of the curb with his elbows on his knees

and his face in his glum hands, waiting for a parade

with sacred clowns throwing away free candies

like stars along the route of the mystic Milky Way.

Just be sure to keep your eyes open like a spring thaw

so the light can recognize you like the flower that brought it

to full illumination this time last year like a candle

that keeps blowing its petals out so you can see

the black matter of what you are not deeper

into the eyeless dark than you’ve ever bloomed before.

PATRCK WHITE  

I COULD BRING YOU A SHATTERED WINDOWPANE

I COULD BRING YOU A SHATTERED WINDOWPANE

I could bring you a shattered windowpane,

I could bring you a musical whip that’s been trained

to read the stops of your flute

and how your fingers move like windproof spiders.

I could bring you the red brick of dried blood

that was left of my heart when I threw it through the window,

and it broke into a thousand chips of rose petals

that shed like flakes of dried paint off the eyelids

of a revolution that hasn’t woken up yet

to finish what it started in a recurring dream

of mystic junkies flagging their fits

until Faustus sees Christ’s blood

streaming across the firmament like mother’s milk.

Should I ever come to know you well enough

to let you drink from my hidden starwell in my field of view,

I could raise your spirits up like a candelabra

to be whatever constellation you wanted

among all these myriad stars dying to be given a focus.

And if at first you didn’t know where you were, I’d be your locus

until you got your sea legs on the moon,

and learned to walk on fire without getting burned.

You could be the punk mermaid who beguiled

the seasoned sailor of my oceanic awareness

you were still flinging your nets far and wide over

like spatial tides of ionized wavelengths

keeping time with the stars in a Babel of voices

that stratified the lyrics of the seven visible celestial spheres

that could be seen with the naked eye

like the black grammar of the multiverse

trying to keep the light in some kind of context.

And if I drowned to compliment your singing.

You could write a biography of bubbles

about my life and times in the depths with you

and I’d be happy to sign it in the cursive spring

of the year’s first seance to prove

every word I’ve said to you is a cult of the true,

even before I began to write secret loveletters to you

in the nebulae and clouds of unknowing in the stars

that precipitated out of my breath on a glacial windowpane

of an ice age that couldn’t thaw fast enough

for me to open my eyes and see you shining

in ten thousand lakes all at the same time

like the orbits of a prophetic skull at vernal equinox.

PATRICK WHITE

THE SERPENT

The serpent sits enthroned

at the top of its own stairwell,

helically reposing in its own empryean

like an August hawk

coiling up its own thermals;

its fangs, a stargate

to an unknown afterlife, emancipation,

and the jewel of its head,

the first stone thrown,

a small planet without

the eyelid of a sky,

a nugget of mystic uranium,

looped in a turban of orbits,

a sacred arrowhead

that flys from itself like a bow

drawn back long before the wind

knew its first feather.

Lethal healer,

the sword that kills is the sword that saves.

This morning,

the drubbing of the rain on a tin roof,

the hiss of traffic

flaring like matches down the sleek asphalt,

if I were to say

I want the emotional life of space,

I don’t know if I’d mean it,

but I’m so weary

of being this slow crisis of a bird

mesmerized by the swaying eyes

of the black lightning

that has caught me in the net

it weaves of my own nerves,

I want to douse my heart

in the next providential tide of tears

like a torch I put out in the night

to see better in the dark.

I asked for wings

and my spine was adorned with fire.

I asked for water

and I’m a fish on the wind.

and now this desert I hoped to remain,

a craze of sand,

has grown teeth

and is overgrazing the starfields like pyramids.

I don’t think

I will ever recover

from the wound I received

like the hidden twin of the moon,

trying to love the world, myself, women, people.

Every word was a road, a pulse, an eye,

a drop of blood

I could ride to the end of and beyond

into the implacable subtlety

of my own empty, ageless temples

where even the silence isn’t ghost enough

to conjure a medium

to jar the table as a sign,

and death is buried in its own vacuity

like an embryo in a mask without eyes.

I was bound by my own boundlessness,

my nerves, wicks in the abyss

that enhanced the darkness

by cleaving me like a tree

vision after vision,

another world

with every blink of the eye

that wiped the mirror clean of me like an ax

until I understood

that even the most enlightened watersheds of wisdom

are just a smear of perception

on the least drop of that splendour

I went looking for like a cloud

saturated with the ancient seas of the moon

that was covered by my own looking.

I lay at the bottom

of my oceanic odyssey,

trying not to sink,

but I wanted to give something back

for what I felt I had received;

not an ethic or a metaphysic,

but a spontaneous action of the blood

that remembers it was once a rose.

I wanted to return spring like a water-key to the moon;

I wanted to harvest the shadows

of my own non-existence

and break bread

with the famine of ghosts

that came like royalty to beg food from their servant,

blind doors standing on the thresholds of awareness

asking me to address myself

to the terrible openness

of their unanswerable need.

I have eaten my own ashes

in the furnace of every star

I have ever looked upon.

I have drowned in the wells

of the faceless, fathomless mirrors,

and every woman I have ever drunk from

was a grail with an enigmatic black pearl in it

lustrous as the moon in eclipse.

O promises of bliss

that tuned the webs of the spiders

like a guitarist with perfect pitch

to the frequency of my spinal cord

that I might entangle a star

in the silk of my conceiving;

that I might seize a firefly

in the fangs of my thought

and taste the honey of the lantern

that lit my dark corner

in the era of the moment.

O sweetest of lies to ripen with longing

like the eyes of a child in the darkness

far from home.

I was trying to find a road

that fit my walking like shoes on a mountain;

I was trying to walk on water with mystic crutches;

I was looking for an arrow

dipped in the blood of a serpent with wings,

set aflame by a demonic star

and feathered by spiritual fire

to restring me like a bow

severed like the branch of a sacred grove

by the oracular blade of the moon.

I was too deeply sheathed in the truth

to appreciate the arcane sagacity of my lies.

I stood like a shadow in the burning doorway of my own fire

and looked deeply into the night

to answer my own knocking

like the echo of a stranger in the darkness,

walking away from someone who didn’t know

how to greet himself.

I was a tree crucified on a man,

a vandal in the shrine of the moment,

bleeding like stained-glass,

a rosary of vertebrae and skulls

reconstructed in the future museum of now

I played myself into like a funeral plan.

Now everywhere the wind is a pilgrim,

I leave my heart like a shrine

I will never return to.

And the sadness, and the solitude

and the vastness of my insignificance

is the shadow of a bird on a cloud.

The only way to perfect my defeat

was to sit at the feet of my most cherished delusion

like a rootless flower watching over a coffin,

then rise like the wind

from the rubbish of the shedding,

the loneliest pillar and sole cornerstone of the sky.

Now my apish profundities

no longer crack fleas of light like stars

I picked out of God’s burning beard

with the forceps of the moon.

Now I am infested with constellations.

I no longer turn the pages of the waterlilies

like the holy books of an inspired swamp.

I no longer seep down to the river

to drink from the moon

like a serpent at the water’s edge

and watch the panicked angels jumping

from the reflection of an uncrossed bridge

that collapsed like a covenant with hell.

I no longer shred my heart

like a secret document

in an abandoned embassy of swans

looking for asylum further south,

tormented by the unattainability

of a woman’s beauty,

looking for sanctuary

in the ashes of a black sail

that flared like a poppy with passion

at every gust of desire

that silvered the trembling grass

with sidereal aspirations.

Why bother to laminate your lovers, your legends?

Let them go like autumn leaves and smoke,

the last breath you took

before you were interred

like a scream in the larynx of a deaf-mute,

a foreign currency you can’t spend at home.

Naked is the only way to dress for the rain,

but it doesn’t matter which

from the wardrobe of all your many lies

you wear to the fire that waits for you

like a fledgling waits for its plumage.

And this is a long river

and this is a long day and a night

and maybe only the silence is listening

to what the stars are preaching

from the pulpits of the flowers,

and this that says me now

is just the promo for the intensive care ward

of a new religion

the founders are always the first to betray;

but when I truly let go

it was my falling

that taught me to patch my shoes with the sky.

And have you come this far,

passed through this many gates

for wisdom, compassion, freedom,

wandered aimlessly until you could not tell

the stars from the sand,

the journey from the arrival,

suffered worse than all the things you cannot say

until you forgot what you were looking for

in the first place, until

you despised what you craved the most?

I don’t remember how long I slept

before my dreaming woke me up

and I realized

no fool could defame my solitude

and that life

was only the story of a scar

looking for the knife that inflicted it

like a shadow

in the forsaken valleys

of the mountains of the moon.

Looking for a pearl of light

I had to plunge into a darkness

deeper than anything

my eyes had ever given birth to.

PATRICK WHITE

SINCE I WAS A CHILD

SINCE I WAS A CHILD

Since I was a child, this longing in my heart

for something I can’t even name, but keeps

drawing me into it like a unfulfilled abyss,

unattainably alluring, but the space

saturated with pain as if time itself were grieving

like the white noise of the cosmic background,

or the love of a created thing for this that has come

would always be left unanswered and unrequited.

Times I’ve thought the emptiness, because

nature abhors a vacuum, was life’s way

of enticing me into the available dimensions of the future,

a furtherance of me as a means of achieving its own ends.

I could blunder my way toward it as the labour of my life

in pursuit of an earthly excellence radiant with stars,

sublime as a root, with the dynamic equilibrium of a tree

that had weathered many storms in the name

of a beautiful absurdity that adorned the heart

with the tenderness of fireflies without losing

any of the impact of a life-changing meteor shower.

Maybe I’m just chasing ghosts of the unborn

who should have been and my longing’s

a kind of mourning that confuses the past

with what’s missing when it’s really the future

that’s suffered a miscarriage, and the way

a woman’s body grieves like a planet

for a shepherd moon that’s lost, I sense

the devastation of the coming years and my heart

aches with compassion for what is yet to be lived through

and all I can do is retain a future memory

of the bloody rose I can see in the bedsheets

of a spiritual hemorrhage we’ll wake up beside

one morning like a shattered window

into the souls and hearts and minds we denied

any possibility of life to because

we hoarded our potential for love so lethally.

Life keeps its balance by constantly adapting

to its growing awareness of what it’s made of itself

as do we making it up as we go along approximating

the probable concourse of affairs spontaneously.

You might say consciousness, the light that each

has been given to go by, is what evolution

looks like on the inside, urgent with creation.

The gathering. The mingling. The dissipation.

All the eddies and currents of thought and emotion

writing on the mindstream sometimes in Kufic script,

sometimes Irish kells, or maybe just heavy-hearted bells

that like to write their own songs and sing them

to no one but themselves, as if the mystery

of their sadness were sweeter kept than told.

I came like a stranger to the burnt gate

of my unsurvivable longing, and it was open

as if it had been waiting for me, and I walked barefoot

in the ashes of the flowers that were being emptied

like the urns of many past lives on the wind,

until I came to one that bloomed like a waterlily of fire,

a blossom of enlightenment, a sun that shone at midnight,

and for awhile, as still happens from time to time,

I walked in my own profusion like a garden again

so alone with a blue moon in Pisces only

the most courageous of lovers could enter my solitude

like the fruits of the earth, like a windfall of stars,

like a gust of fireflies out to make constellations of us all

that evolve, as circumstances change, into intimate zodiacs

that keep us all fire walking on our mindstream

like maple leaves in an autumn that just won’t go out

like inspiration and life and longing, the mystery

in the beautiful eyes of the muses of crazy wisdom.

PATRICK WHITE