FIREFLIES LIKE TERRORIST ACTS AGAINST THE STARS

FIREFLIES LIKE TERRORIST ACTS AGAINST THE STARS

Fireflies like terrorist acts against the stars.

Truth on the oyster of the tongue spun

like a grain of sand, an irritant fact

into the nacreous lustre of lies. Those are pearls

that were his eyes, the politicians sink so low

they’re flatworms in platform shoes.

Not a good idea to wipe your ass

with your own ideals in public. It

shocks the mob to realize their magi are maggots.

When the mob loses face, heads roll.

The latent rage of a thousand real and imagined ills

swarm out of the pinatas of your May Day festivals

like the nemetic scourge of God whipping the eyes

of the media into a frenzy of visionary vengeance.

Paranoia becomes a civic duty and Big Brother

no more than someone you know in the Mafia

doesn’t give a damn whether you’re related to him or not.

Maternal piety suckles at the poppy’s breast

and we bleed like the dreams of sleepwalkers

on the prophylactic precipice of the razor’s edge.

Down below in the middens of the rejected

the skulls of children heaped like shepherd moons

that didn’t make the cut of random luck

and ideological purity run amok with inhumanity

like secret police with unlimited budgets

to protect the state by interrogating the genomes

of their citizenry for any mutant signs of evolution.

The most bitter and appalled among us profess optimism

like roses in the sunset of a mushroom cloud

as lethal as the Angel of Death when it rains

and amateur survivalists are complaining of stomach pains.

Science is taught to shut its mouth by a thug

that knows what’s good for it is also good

for the Golden Goose that lays the cosmic eggs

in the Eleusinian Mysteries of dialectical materialism.

Covert telescopes replace the glass eyes

of enlightened Cyclops with black ops that move

like Ninjas in the night, the hashashim of the Old Man

of the Mountain, the shining city on a hill,

to eliminate any doubt of the positive outcome

of imperial altruism bearing the white man’s burden

like Coca Cola, ho, ho, ho, come like Santa Claus to Belize,

or Shell to the arctic like the ark of an oil platform

leaking like the shepherds of the black camel

in the white deserts in the land of the midnight sun.

Five billion years of astronomical catastrophes creatively

eliminating species that weren’t related directly to us

and the acclamation of human consciousness as the only

mode of intelligence to make it in the long run

like the Boston marathon through a gauntlet

of pressure cookers that can’t stand up on their own two legs

without cooking nails in the practical crackhouses of hardware stores

prosthetically intent on martyring human femurs

on a pyre of crutches you can’t throw away like a miracle cure

at the top of the cathedral stairs you climbed on your bleeding knees

to walk on air like a prayer to the angels of mercy

listening like drones and satellites high overhead

to the screams of the uncircumspect innocent at the finish line.

Desecration, as if we were angry with our gods

like the Mayans who burnt their temples one day

in desperation for a famine the seven fat kine

the untempered greed of the bankers caused

at the end of civilization that knows more about us

than we do it, with honey for some and locusts for others

in a foreclosed wilderness with radio-controlled wolves,

and nano-sized mosquitoes like puncture wounds

at the beginning of the data chain that leads

like breadcrumbs on the road of knowledge suspiciously

like the photo-shopped streets of London back to us

like a hallucinogenic reality show in highspeed HD.

Decry something sacred, something unanalytically

vulnerable like a misplaced faith in the immunity

of our genetically modified mothers to protect us

from diseases like an insurance policy that didn’t cover us

or the honey bees o.d.ing on the pestilential nicotinoids

that cling like smallpox to the blankets we gave the natives

to keep warm like a guest with a fever in the charnel house of life.

What sweetness mined like pollen from a corpse flower

is ever going to taste like viscous sunshine to a corporate hive

whose growing pains are always parasitical genocide

of one kind or another? Caterpillars against butterflies.

Pervs, perps, terrorists, ghouls and demented one percenters

of the unbikerly kind, the mob won’t die benignly like road kill.

Once the genuflective holiness of the gilded shepherd’s crook

is seen by the sheep who bleated for rescue to be what it is,

a cattle prod in an abattoir of grain-fed coup d’etats,

you’ll be eating the meat of your children boiled

in their mother’s milk, when the mob’s preference

for fair-mindedness is murderously offended like a snakepit

that was minding its own business like Babylon at a ball game

when your bomb went off like a prelude of the apocalypse

you so furtively desire like a plague rat of self-hatred

seeking notoriety in the shadows of things to come

that go boom, boom, boom, like something infernally gargantuan

protecting her young like the infuriated mother of mayhem.

PATRICK WHITE

WON'T MEET MOST OF YOU IN A LIFETIME

WON’T MEET MOST OF YOU IN A LIFETIME

Won’t meet most of you in a lifetime

and know there are six billion of us

and more coming all the time, each trying

to interpret the sign of their own star,

you know, the one that nobody else can see

but for a few rays of light breaking

through the clouds here and there,

that says, this is the way to shine,

this is the way to shine, and that includes

black holes everywhere as well.

Whether you can see through it or not

as a plagiarism of water and sand

every mirage has its own meaning,

every star belongs to a different zodiac,

each with their own totems, mandalas,

and shapeshifting constellations, each

their own houses of worship and disrepute,

we’re all wearing on our foreheads

written in between the lines of fate

like a sidereal bandanna, each

a meme of one we’re hoping will allow

someone to recognize us in isolation

like a prison tat that says we’ve paid our dues

for the last thousand lifetimes without parole

and have a right to be here as well as anyone

because we’ve done our time standing up

just to be alive, whether you’re running from it

or not. Everyone’s got a different approach

to their own departure, and though

there is no gate they must go through,

there’s a garden they must spend

some time in for awhile, telling

the flowers what the roots of our names mean

each as unique as a snowflake

on a petal or an eyelid or a furnace.

Each a theme of their own picture-music,

our lives are not sub-plots of the main narrative.

There’s a whole symphony in the tintinnabula,

like a drop of water reflecting the entire universe

just the same as there is in the first violins.

And everyone brings their own instrument to the jam

whether it be the wind in the silver Russian olives,

a tuba, a burning guitar, or the fossil of the lyre

that used to sing the dead up from hell

to a day of show and tell, and it doesn’t matter

what kind of music you make, whether

it’s the choral riot of your favourite nocturnal animals in a zoo,

or the distant plectra of a hidden nightcreek

playing solo on a harpsichord in a lonely sacred grove,

or you’re riffing on futuristic mystic mantras

like Tibetan prayer bowls that used to sound

like a waterclock of urns, as long as you’re adding

your singularity like the longing high note of a nightbird

to the dendritic staves of the trees. Even the silence sings.

And what is it we’re all really longing for

in the solitary labyrinths we’ve made

of the complexity of our desires,

if it isn’t a world elaborated from

the prime fractal of our love,

as if it fell to each of us now, not god,

that weight was removed from her shoulders

the moment our cosmic egg hatched

and we took to our own wings,

eagles and fireflies and Icarus alike

to provide the image of light upon light

like a masterpiece we leave behind us

that’s everybody’s signed like a self-portrait

of who we were to each other for awhile

when we stood in wonder and awe

at what was arrayed before us knowing

it’s the exact likeness of everyone,

and the star in the eye that’s turned toward us

as if each of us were the direction of prayer

is the same one we’ve been following for light years

like the magi seeking the source of their own radiance,

candles in the dark wondering where

the light’s coming from in billions of creative mirrors

falling on everyone alike like rain and eyes

so that before we close them

like two dew drops of stereoscopic water

falling back to our roots like our last words

from the tips of the tongues of the stargrass

to dream up new blossoms in our sleep

like new moons budding on a dead branch,

we each realize that we’re the myth of origin,

the alpha and omega of all things that begin and end

as well as the unattainable for which there is no metaphor

placed well within the creative reach of everyone of us

though if I were to give it a shot as a poet, I’d say,

knowing what I know of this life in the arts,

like the habitable planets and ripening desert moons

of the low-hanging fruits of our hearts.

PATRICK WHITE

PSYCHOBABYLON WOULDN'T TRADE ONE REAL STAR

PSYCHOBABYLON WOULDN’T TRADE ONE REAL STAR

PsychoBabylon wouldn’t trade one real star of his implausibility in

for the smallest flake of that tinfoil spiritual life you’re passing off

as an iron pyrite cure all. PsychoBabylon knows the serenity of the dragons

who’ve learned to make peace with their own fires

even when they’re bringing the rain to temper the swords

they forged in hell to kill people back into life

who’ve stuffed their pillows with too many feathers

and not enough scales to be credible even to the shadows they cast,

not to speak of the torment they put their dreams through

trying to divine and sign them like a message from the dead

for their eyes only. PsychoBabylon suppley practises

a discipline of subtle tenderness and recurrent doubt

in the face of his ambiguous revelations of what it’s all about.

PsychoBabylon might tilt at the hull with the mast of his moonboat

from time to time, thinking he’s whaling with the Kwakiutl,

but he doesn’t turn his lions loose on the blackflies of insinuation

knowing their prowess depends as much upon

the quality of their enemies as it does their friends.

And surely it’s the folly of flowers and stars that have led him

to certain incongruous conclusions about life that constitute

enough of a starmap of independence to go his own way

like a rogue planet sustained by the dark abundance

of his own homelessness as if every orbit he jumped

like the looping threshold of the mystery of life discharged

another photon of light on the black matter of space and time at hand.

PsychoBabylon would rather light candles and fireflies in the abyss

with his incendiary insights than blow them out

with the kiss of a fraudulent angel who traded her harp in

for a fire-extinguisher foaming at the mouth like a rabid cloud

to smother the protected species of hell in the first snowfall

of a nuclear winter. PsychoBabylon doesn’t demonize

the third man on the match for smoking in No Man’s Land

in front of a firing squad looking for scapegoats as a way

out of the irreconcilable dilemmas that keep breaking them

like wishbones and the horns of the lapis lazuli bull harps

strung between the crescents of the moon like spider webs

disguised as dreamcatchers apprenticed to Venus fly traps.

Sick people go to hospital. Bad people go to church.

PsychoBabylon heads out to the woods by himself with a noose

as often as he does a telescope. He risks a wary kindness

toward everything he sees, and even more excruciatingly

he doesn’t replace the thorns of the wild rose bush

with the fangs of the rattlesnake coiled under it

that struck him in his throat in the middle of a song of longing

like a rat snake in the nest of a nightbird whose blood

has just turned to moon rock in a transfusion of toxins

to counteract the mystic elixirs of his enlightened lunacy.

If you can’t hold the prophetic skull of the moon

in your own two hands by now, without fretting it

into foretelling a lie, PsychoBabylon blues his view of you

in the aerial perspective of his compassionate distance

as the victim of your own siege works when you’re the first

to start throwing stones at the windows of your own crystal palace

because where there used to be chandeliers of stars

radiant enough to open up the chakras of the dead

now there’s nothing but a mobile of swords above your head

and all the tongues of serpent fire you split like cedar shakes

to go witching for enlightenment in your celestial watershed

are now swimming on a different wavelength like a holy book

someone read in passing, and like a folder of soggy matches

that smouldered, but never flared, threw into a cosmic ditch

along with the angelic road kill and the rest of the spiritual junkmail.

PATRICK WHITE  

IF YOU HAD ANY COMPASSION FOR YOURSELF

IF YOU HAD ANY COMPASSION FOR YOURSELF

If you had any compassion for yourself,

others wouldn’t have to suffer for you

and the world wouldn’t show you

such a sad, woeful, wounded face.

You wouldn’t see the withering leaves

and petals of the rose in autumn

as merely the scar tissue of its thorns.

In winter, mend your severance.

In spring, attend to your joys.

Like fishing nets and snow fences.

Like delphiniums in a garden bed

that’s beginning to bloom like a starmap.

And you know that stranger inside

that’s always witnessing everything we do

like a perfectly clear mirror, even in dreams?

Take another look, you might be surprised

at whose face you see at a meeting of eyes.

It’s important not to pass judgement on yourself

for fear of condemning the world.

Show me a mirage that isn’t a friend to water

or a wishing-well that resents a rainbow

for the pot of gold at the end, though

no one ever knows which end at the time.

Be kind to your delusive paradigms of life,

as you would an old skin you shed like the moon

when your serpent-fire could no longer contain itself

and broke out of its sacred chrysalis like a dragonfly

that had made itself a house of life out of matchsticks

and went up in flames like a snake with wings.

If you could see your life for what it is,

a teaching device for mentoring your own enlightenment

you might read the books of all the sages

rooted and flowering in you like the wisdom of a seed,

or the star in the ore of a panspermic universe

that was planted in you like the garden you’ve been from birth.

You might think that the wildflowers

are looking up at the stars to understand themselves

but, in truth, they’re looking up at their roots

like rain reveres the lightning that engenders it.

You don’t need to convince the wind of your freedom,

you’ve just got to ride it out to the end,

a friend to yourself, a worthy companion,

the intimate familiar of a cloud with a clear blue sky

or a subliminal lover of the darkness

love mushrooms up in like a moonrise.

If you knew how to nurture yourself

by breaking bread with the spirit of life within you

there wouldn’t be millions of children

all over the world who will go hungry tonight.

They’d be licking the spoon with stealthy laughter

like cookie-batter out of the begging bowl of your heart.

Enlightenment isn’t going to add one ray of light

or a single star to the night you’re already shining in,

and whatever wavelength you’re on, regardless

of the mystic polarities your potential flows between,

like dark matter and light, whether the journey you’re on

is orange or infrared or the blue white violet of the Pleiades,

absorption or emission spectrum alike, no wave

of thought or mind, light, heart or water

is discontinuous with the oceanic consciousness

they rise upon, so why turn back to the source

like a solar flare to ask for directions from a starmap

that sent you out like a bubble in the multiverse to look for land.

You know, if you were more of an explorer

without a preconceived destination, more

of a space probe leaving the solar system periodically,

the rest of us wouldn’t feel so lost or out of place at your table.

And even if you’ve made a vehicle

of the wheel of birth and death

and think you have a firm grasp on things

with your arm out the window in the driver’s seat,

enjoying the passing view with the wind in your hair

without clinging to anything along the way

it still might be a good idea to learn how

to come down off your throne like a pauper

and change a flat tire now and again.

Your life is not an untimely interruption of eternity.

The eternal sky does not inhibit the flight of the white clouds,

and it even bends down sometimes toward the earth

to pick up Venus like a lost earring in the sunset.

It’s your point of view that turns your back on yourself

like the retrograde motion of Mars, not

the planet itself playing rope tricks with your spinal cord.

Why go looking for your mind

like a lighthouse with a flashlight,

a flame for the source of the fire

or a star for the constellation it belongs to,

or the homeless for a home when everyone’s

the foundation stone of their own habitation

wherever they are at the moment.

If you chase the wind, it will be you

that loses its breath like the atmosphere of the moon.

And when you run out of air, breathe light, breathe space,

and don’t try to fix an expanding universe

to your nostrils like a bicycle pump

to get you back on the road again.

Or you’ll find you’re swimming out of your depths

to run to the rescue of an empty lifeboat

that’s already unloaded its contents ashore.

If you don’t want to go blind as a starless night

it’s prescient to eclipse your blazing from time to time,

turn the lights down low, snuff the candle,

and learn to see in the dark there’s just as much reflected

in the depths of the dark abundance

of a black mirror, though it takes time to focus,

than there is in the expansiveness

of the bright vacancy of the white

that takes things in at a glance.

The seed of a every glimpse of insight contains

the whole of the vision in advance,

and at the core of the apple of the issue

is a green star with dark auburn eyes

on the nightshift of the maternity wards of spring.

And o come on now, how long can you hang on

to being this box kite on a string

watching another phoenix ride your thermals

like inspiration on the wing, without feeling

like the premature ghost of yourself at the onset of spring,

all smoke, and no fire, your flightfeathers smouldering

like a pyre of wet maple leaves who haven’t got the courage

to break into flames and flap their wings and rise above it all.

Better to be a weather balloon losing altitude like Icarus

or even a candling parachute taking the fall for all of us,

as daring said feathers and falling took flight,

than not risk falling through the black holes of life to paradise?

And what if I were to tell you’re they’re just the pupils

the light enters through like your eyes into your imagination

to be transformed from a visual into a vision,

the visible form into the invisible shining of the spirit

that raises everything in the known and unknown multiverse,

and the trees and the stars, the rocks and the clouds

are all counting on you to do this for them,

because this is what you’re here for,

if you’ve ever wondered,

to raise them up to eye-level

with a human who knows the names of things

like parents know the names of their own children

running toward them down the street. It’s how

we were meant to meet and greet the universe.

So if once, just once, for my sake, your sake, the sake

of the forsaken with their elbows on the windows of the world tonight

watching it all go by like stars on the firewalks beneath their noses,

that are not embedded in cement like a mausoleum

of movie-stars that refused to become fossils

before their shining was spent,

you took a chance, and that’s all it would take,

one step forward with no return address,

to risk falling down at the dance,

and seven times down, eight times up,

such is life, get up on your own two good feet again

and discover you’ve got wings and spurs on your heels

the rest of us wouldn’t feel so lame

when we came over to your place

like a riot of erratic fireflies to celebrate

the lightning moves of the rain that’s dancing on our graves

where the dead lie down like the corpses of candles

knowing they’ll be reincarnated

as wildflowers and Luna moths

because nothing that’s ever given its life up

to this business of shining on everything alike

from a first magnitude star, to the night light in the hall

that shoos the ghosts away from their portraits on the wall

so the whole world can bloom in the tears of your eyes,

the fire in your heart, and in the human divinity

of the spirit of your imagination, can ever be put out

because every shadow of doubt

leads back the light that cast it

in love and sorrow, time and space

to the life and death mask of your own face.

PATRICK WHITE  

I COME TO A WALL

I COME TO A WALL

I come to a wall, the morning intellectually numb,

soft grey rain on rough-cut fieldstones that have stayed in place

two hundred years like the masonic cemetery of buildings

around town, lodged in time like books on a shelf for show.

I imagine honest, capable men, for the most part, with broken hands

that mended like starfish learning to throw a knuckle-ball.

There it stands, their work, in space and time, functionally sublime

long after life has run out of use for its makers.

Sturdy work, skilled and dirty, did they eventually

ache their lives away, old men with back problems,

sitting on a porch overlooking their wives’ flowerbeds?

Were they fastidious as Michelangelo in the quarries of Carrara

about the marble they chose for their headstones and who,

if their fingers couldn’t grip a chisel anymore, determined

not to lie under shoddy work, would carve them and set them

like jewels back in the earth they took them from? Here

and there the sway-backed stone bends under its own weight

as if it carried the world on its shoulders like an avalanche

it hasn’t let down. Someone solid you could stub your heart on.

How insubstantial this art of the evanescent that practises me

as if silence were making its own reeds for a woodwind

and I was the shriek of a blade of grass between its thumbs.

Discarded stereotypes of the man I would have been

if I hadn’t been born by nature and nurture to seed the sere

with the colour green, and listen to the mute stones sing

of the intangible mysteries of spring that seize them by the throat

like swallows building their nests like begging bowls

in between the cracks of the stone-walling earth. By other means

I build castles for the pageant of the wind on tour

to eat out of house and home, I lay the foundations of zodiacs

to come that will shelter everyone under the eaves

of their shapeshifting signs, symbolic as a guild hall

in a country parade where everyone is represented as an individual

apprenticed to the masterless trade of being themselves

just as they are, each a candidate for their own constellation

like a shire reeve that wins by acclamation. No one else

to run against with the experience of a trained eye

to keep the black and whites of their eighty-eights straight

and on the level like the skeletal keyboard of a celestial piano

playing to a full house of musically inclined ghosts.

I work in quicksand. I work in starmud. I work

on a nightshift of stars like a watchman holding up

the light he’s been given to go by like a lantern in the shadows.

Once I feared madness, but now I know,

as the waxing crescent of the moon sets above

the all night grocery store, it’s an unparalleled labour of love.

It doesn’t matter who or why. Is the rain out of focus

because it has a million eyes and there’s no end of the seeing?

Even in the way it weeps whole firmaments in every drop

along the seam of a blade of stargrass, you can’t halt

the flourishing of life along the unplotted course of the mindstream

making its way to the sea and source of its awareness.

Water remembers everything like the taste of wild irises

because it’s inspired and alive, the legendary beauty

of the fires it fed like daylilies and the ashes in the urns

of the single-petalled roses that flared for a day and a night

before the wind blew them out like loveletters it held over a candle

to read between its tears in the dark the horrendous farewells

of passion and blood that liberate the light from our starmud

and elevate our private sorrows like root-fires into the realms

of the rain that falls like compassion on everything alike

in a world where every experience is a simile of who we are,

imagination individual as a fingerprint in a mirroring consciousness

with no identity of its own, together alone with everyone

bonded like the weather to the sea of awareness we seek shelter in

like a posthumous work of spiritual hospitality that’s been

opening its door to strangers for the last 13.7 billion light years

after the first foundation stone of the universe was laid reciprocally

without pomp and ceremony on the creative side of a singularity

that popped like a mad rabbit out of the white hole of the hat

of a wise magician still gaping like an open window

at her vision of a crazy life before birth and how on earth she did that.

PATRICK WHITE  

THESE WORDS ARE NOT MEANT TO BURN YOUR SMILE

THESE WORDS ARE NOT MEANT TO BURN YOUR SMILE

These words are not meant to burn your smile.

I lay them gently like cool herbs on your cracked lips.

This light takes its shoes off before it enters your eyes

like shrines to the apostate darkness that lives within you

and waits for the moonrise to gentle your Vesuvian wounds.

Pompous to call myself a healer when all I am

is a confabulation of lyrical cures for what ails you

but I call the wind to the winter willows

and the taste of rain in the air washes the blood

out of your hair like a painter caressing a watercolour

with sable brushes that bleed like dusk on the river.

Let that man pray discretely no evil comes of his words

when he speaks of love as if his heart knew

what he was talking about so I will not tell you

to exit by the fire-escape the next time he fire-bombs

your palace of water gardens with emotional phosphorus.

You take that up with the silence of the abyss

you’re already pleading for consolation answers from.

It’s your light and the way you bend it like a gravitational eye

is how love can wander like a straight line for lightyears

without realizing it’s always been a special form of a curve.

Even with a chubby lip and that orchid of a black eye

that will descend like a moonset into a bruised eclipse,

wounded so, whipped like a rose by a comet

disappointed by the lack of spectators who anticipated

being more amazed by the light show, your beauty

is still an unspoken assumption that pervades the air

like the vulnerable fragrance of a woman mourning

the death of a dream that made the lesser nightmares tolerable.

I can hear the understudies of the mermaids backstage

trying to overcome their stagefright, and, sweetness,

it would be so easy at this station of my life

to include you in my aniconic pantheon of mystic influences

that have been shapeshifting my heart like renegade muses

as wild as they were dangerous in their heretical solitude

for more inspired memories behind me of what was

with no rancour denouncing what could have been

than there are creative eternities ahead that will be validated

by the annihilations I’ve suffered through to aspire to them.

You’d be the right door but I’d be the wrong threshold

you need to cross right now into an abysmal absence

that makes even death wince like something paltry

by comparison, and immolate yourself in the intensity

of the clarity to sort through your ashes to see

what hissed and evaporated like an exorcised ghost

from the green wood that smothered your fire

with the need to possess a life to make up

for the neglect of its own squalid smouldering.

Spontaneously distinguish the star sapphires and emerald lakes

the white gold of your burnished bodymind could swim in

like the plumage of the moon unfeathered like a peony

on the supple waters of life whispering a secret

that has slept like an ocean in a seashell waiting

for you to remember it when you first picked it up on the beach

like a little girl wondering why something so beautiful and strange

came such a long way for you to find it like a kiss

you could hold in your hands like an eyelid

or the petal of a nacreous rose in your palm.

When your prince proves something less than mortal,

appeal directly to the fire of the dragon

to refresh your innocence in the rain

that will fall shortly after as if it just discovered

the sacred syllables of lunar flower seeds

in a desolate garden trying to bloom like the palings

of a closed gate and you will be received like a messenger

from another state of seeing with crucial news

about how love can root in the shadows of desert seabeds

like a mirage of waterlilies that actually float

like stars on the wavelengths of unmapped rivers.

Risk the fear of being who you are even

when the voices of the dead have your best interests

at heart, and gibber about not making the same mistakes

their authority rests upon like resolute quicksand,

and don’t scorn the pettiness of what people

are willing to die in the name of, but turn your face

like a sunflower toward the sublime perils

of what you’re truly inspired to live as

with no gap between your imagination

and the shadows of reality it casts on the clouds

like the penumbral wisdom of compassionate dragons

passing over your intertidal moonscapes

like the eclipse of a dark blessing that buries

its shining like a loveletter in a black envelope,

serpentine jewels in the ore of the night

that will flood your eyes indelibly with the mystery

of being illuminated by the light of your own heart,

galaxies of fireflies reflected in the sea stars at your feet.

PATRICK WHITE

SOLID ENOUGH IN THE WORLD FOR ONE DAY

SOLID ENOUGH IN THE WORLD FOR ONE DAY

Solid enough in the world for one day

sit down at your desk and evaporate like something real.

Let your spring mindstream wash your detritus away,

lave your overturned roots like feet that have stood their ground

long enough, as if it were keeping an octopus wet,

or you were sitting down on the job having a good laugh

with radical crows who cherish you like an iconic in-joke.

One sweep of the sword and the knot in your heartwood’s unravelled

like the rain, like the pain you’ve been carrying inside of you

like the bottomless bucket of a baby that’s never going to come to term.

It’s grey outside. The air is opalescent. You’re

pearl diving in an hourglass like a nacreous agitator

that wants to add a little lustre to life. Something satin

that isn’t wasted on a coffin. Fair enough. It’s one

of the nobler ways of ruining your life in the name

of something no one ever completely understands.

Make your mind dark. Walk homeless within yourself

instead of saying you’re lost when all you are

is overwhelmed. Be overwhelmed. Astonished.

Awed. Full of wonder. The way the sky feels

every time the stars emerge like unexpected insights

into the abysmal nature of its creative potential

coming out like wildflowers, each in their own hour,

in the Lanark hills. Trout lily, hepatica, crocus.

Enthrone yourself like a queen or a mermaid

on a rock you like down by the run-off of the river

but this time don’t ask the willows what they think of your song

look at the red-winged blackbirds gathering on the hawthorn

that can tell by the way the wind applauds in the trees

you’ve been practising since they’ve been gone.

Is it so bad? Is it so wrong to enjoy the fire

from the smoke’s point of view once in awhile?

Just drift away into the night as if you had something in common

with the white, sweet clover along the Road of Ghosts.

Who knows what genies might spring from the lamp?

Is it so hard to imagine having a heart like yours

and being at ease with it? Peace doesn’t mean

you take the tension out of life or you have to dance

with the fireflies if you don’t want to. Nothing’s prescribed.

No need to try and heal the medicine. The blue stars

of the sage are shining like sapphires left over from last spring

when you went down into the underworld but refused to drink

what it offered you. A chance to taste death as if

you were homesick for a past you looked forward to having.

The river clarifies itself in its own running. Be carried away

circuitously, as if you’d wandered lightyears from the shrine

of your own lost pilgrimage. Ask any experienced oscilloscope

there’s more intelligent life in a curve than there is in a straight line.

But don’t hold it against the turkey vultures

they’ve got an appetite for roadkill. We’re all buried in life

like organ donors with no idea of who we’re going

to give ourselves to except we hope it’s useful in retrospect

when it comes time to clean out the garage, that we suggested

the mind can make out all right on its own, but you couldn’t part

with your eyes if they didn’t go with your heart

like moonrise in early April, like apple bloom

in the abandoned backyard of the house you were raised in.

Haven’t you suffered enough on this long night journey of your soul

following your gut like runic scars on a Viking sunstone

to dapple your wings in a few fountains along the way,

run down to the bay naked and laughing as if

there were nobody around to scare or plunder

and even Eric the Red must have had a child in him

that sometimes came out to play like a pup seal on an ice floe.

Stop asking the tongues of the roses to say awww

as if they had thorns caught in their throat

like polyps on a voicebox or starlings in a chimney.

Treat your heart to the down and contrails

of unknown flightfeathers for a change

and skip the usual darning needles like an eye

you don’t have to pass through if it’s always closed

this time of the season. There will always be hard rocks

willing as an avalanche to take some of the load off

by kicking your foundation stone from under your feet

like the footstool of the turtle the world mountain balanced on

in a race with Haigha, the mad, March Hare and the Mad Hatter

to see who can make it all the way to May.

Relax. It’s all out of control. No need to be

progressively droll or superciliously altruistic

about bettering a world where the peasants ate cake yesterday

but today they’re engaged in a holy war over the recipe.

Blossom or windfall, leaf or meteor, let things

fall out as they may. Don’t give your roots

a nervous breakdown when the lightning

is witching for water by testing the air with its tongue

to see if you’re enlightened or not, and if not, bite

so you can return like spring every year released from death.

Sit down at your desk. Barefoot. Feel the starmud

ooze between your toes, as if the flesh and mind of the earth

were your flesh and mind, as they are. Be smoke, be tendrils,

linger along your own path fascinated by all the blades

of the wild irises sprouting like jackknifes along the way.

Look at the leaves unfolding like scrolls the way

we used to roll and unroll our tongues as kids.

Could you do that? Or did you whistle better than everybody?

Everybody’s got something that makes them special

some little trick or quirk they’ve mastered

whether the world recognizes it or not, some few did

and they’re still standing there somewhere in time

gaping with their jaws open you could do that

and that was the cherry blossom of the moment

when you were perfect. As the Upanishads say

This is perfect. That is perfect. Take perfect from perfect

it’s still perfect isn’t it? The question’s mine.

But that’s what we’re born and perish with however we change.

The big questions in life aren’t lacking anything,

and the answers, they’re so simple, they don’t like to be asked.

Treat the solid to something new once and awhile

and make it real. You’ll stop being in such a rush

to know who you are when you realize you’re

an ongoing event, not a thing that had to stay home

and look after the farm, and a few exotic peacocks

that moult their eyes every year just for show.

The rich man dies of democracy on his death-bed.

The genius longs to be credibly stupid among people.

The beauty-queen grows jealous of the stars like a firefly.

The athlete grows love handles like a trophy on his perfect physique.

The lover lives in a moment that longs for the past the rest of her life.

The sage wonders if wisdom is a sacred clown or a trickster.

What has the dove got that the crow envies?

Why should you harry oblivion like an alarm clock

as if life were wasting its time on you if you didn’t hurry up?

PATRICK WHITE