Patrick White Poems

Hit Title Date Added
391.
Anything Goes At Three In The Morning

Anything goes at three in the morning.
I'm dogpaddling in the salvage of the day
after the sun went down like a shipwreck
with all hands on board. A train whistle
...

392.
I Would Speak To You In My Night Voice

I would speak to you in my night voice
if you were still here. If you were even as near
as the stars commingled in my breath,
I'd thaw my secret zodiac of crystal skulls
...

393.
Painting Native Masks All Day

Painting native masks all day. Concrete.
Poured into a mould, their supple souls set
into the permafrost like a mammoth's skull.
I don't know what they were the gods of,
...

394.
House Full Of Spirits

House full of spirits, suffering ones, dead flies
punctuate the way
your lives have settled
on the windowsills of an indifferent eternity;
...

395.
Drifting Tonight, A Poem In The Corner Of My Eye

Drifting tonight, a poem in the corner of my eye,
maybe a crumb of sleep from last night's dream,
the willows have grown up a lot since I last came here
but the stars they fix like flowers in their hair
...

396.
Don'T Think I Owed It To Myself, But I Have Endured

Don't think I owed it to myself, but I have endured.
Scarred and broken and as full of escarpments
some bad mason laid in like a Cubist stairwell
in the Canadian Shield. Experience the sum
...

397.
Coming Out Of A Blue Funk

Coming out of a blue funk, this seal,
under a sky thickening like sheet ice all day
has found an airhole it can breathe through for awhile.
Been wondering about my life. What
...

398.
Over Here, You See

Over here, you see, this is where I keep
a hospice for the strawdogs and voodoo dolls
that wander in off the road like spiritual emergencies
that have had enough of being used at sacred rituals.
...

399.
A Vision Of Grief In The World

A vision of grief in the world, so vast and varied,
so intimately specific, so peculiar to each one of us,
we stratify it in our brains like the fossil shapes
of wavelengths and membranes layered
...

400.
White Void For The Moment, Quiescent As Paper And Canvas

White void for the moment, quiescent as paper and canvas,
a little white square in the middle of my heart
as a psychologist once said, startled and wide-eyed,
and there's no one there, as if I were the simplest
...

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