Patrick White Poems

Came to a fork in the shadows of an old oak.
Let it finish itself. My lungs and legs ache.
Go sit down at the desk. My chair creaks
as if it were always perturbed by something in its sleep.
...

Lie to me, if you must, I’ll be your cult of one.
If there’s a darkness you want to lead me into,
a coven of night, a blackhole where you hide your light,
I’ll be Arcturus in the crowns of the black walnut trees.
...

The journey itself changes the nature of the destination
until it is so unrecognizable that the notion
of ever arriving is as absurd as waiting for a star
to catch up to its own light. Poetry’s like that,
...

Flies slowing down on the windows like the minutes
of a clock as it gets colder out. Signs of rain. But for all
the billions of circles the rain has made
over as many lightyears, ripples and tree rings,
...

Not less than the sum of all my yesterdays
this now without origin or end as the stars
turn from summer to fall and the lake
is all farewells, herons, geese, Aquila
...

Unworthy sons and daughters of the stars
is there nothing in this world we won’t kill
one another over? The living order decomposes
into the usual maggots fighting for control
...

Banging bins and hammers unbending nails.
Morning in a small town. Chores, chores, chores,
the self-interested business of the world.
Wood and bread. Coffee and kids. Tooth aches
...

I approach the anger of my inner child
with the smile of a Buddha and let the squall
blow until it burns itself out like a field fire,
defaulting into my second innocence,
...

Sweet September fields sweep me away
with the stragglers among the wildflowers
when the woods are emanating the fragrance
of the collaborative solitude of life
...

Soft liberation going on underground
as if someone left the gate to my heart open
and the horses are grazing in sidereal pastures
and there’s no turmoil in the wind blowing
...