Patrick White Poems
My Death Was A Quiet Event
My death was a quiet event.
I entered the abyss with all
the constituents of the first sign of life
to give voice to the silence
that’s been ripening within me for years.
Green bough. Dead branch. Same song.
The apple falls. The moon blossoms.
Everytime we open them, the worlds
sprout from our eyes like seeds.
Close them and it’s an excuse to dream
of sleepwalking on stars like the firmament
of our own breath expiring
like a vapour of light on the autumn air,
a tale of smoke, a road of ghosts,
the purple passage of a ...
The beast of a thousand unconsummated yesterdays
born without names in the gutter
roars in the rags of its own blood
for the poxy apricot of the rising moon. My voice
is a guitar without strings, the dark well
of an eclipse that eats the dragon
that has lingered too long in the depths without stars.
The crazy windows in this burning room
plead for a reason, a purpose, a sign