Patrick White Poems
Comments about Patrick White
Flowers Are The Clocks Of The Light
Flowers are the clocks of the light.
Spring grey. Clouds. Half smoke, half crocus.
The rivulets are carrying last November's leaves away
like long lines of ants bearing the gnostic gospels
of the snow thawing into a spiritual life of water
back to the shrine of their colony
to be chewed over by the divines
masticating the mystery into something
like an edible orthodoxy of mystic impiety.
My heart is a bruised apple with purple blood today.
Neither passionate, nor aloof, clinging
nor unwilling to let go if that's what I must do.
One foot on shore. ...
To A Young Poet
As you are now, and I have been
a long branch at the top of the tree
in a black spring, reaching out
for the fury of a distant star
to adorn your spine
with a leaf of light
that might be the sail
on a boat full of worlds
that will thunder like windfall fruit