Patrick White Poems
|921.||Is Silence The Negative Space Of Words||12/2/2012|
|922.||You Are Crazy||2/6/2012|
|923.||One Earth, One Third Eye, One Wild Iris Of Life In Space||4/28/2013|
|924.||Just Go. Just Go.||8/17/2013|
|925.||My Death Was A Quiet Event||7/10/2013|
|926.||Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go||10/12/2012|
|927.||Feel Like There's A Beast||6/5/2012|
|928.||The Brighter The Light, The Deeper The Shadow||8/19/2012|
|930.||You Were The Intimacy||2/23/2012|
|931.||The Widening Compass Of Pain||10/10/2012|
|932.||Sitting On A Park Bench In Stewart Park||5/17/2013|
|933.||Yes, There Are Pale Gardens||6/14/2013|
|934.||A Day Of Writing||2/6/2012|
|935.||Flowers Are The Clocks Of The Light||3/17/2012|
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. ...
Burning World, Take Me
Burning world, take me, fold me in your flaming arms
and let me disappear into the unforgiving night.
Among these blind, here, in their black eggs,
eyeless birds who nest in their own ignorance,
I am the leper of light they drive out
with the stone of the moon, the wolf
with the mystic wound that will not heal until the last star
is born of the bleeding. Return me to the cold, brutal beauty
of your mineral wilderness, my bones on Venus