He Kept Saying To Himself
He kept saying to himself
it’s not that hard to know the truth.
The truth is what you see
when there’s no one else there
to witness you witnessing it.
When your nakedness lets you be you
without worrying too much
about who that is.
He kept saying to himself
the truth is the infinite elaboration
of an archetypal fractal.
Keep it simple and austere.
The truth is a subatomic shapeshifter.
When you look at it it acts like a particle.
Turn away and it’s a wavelength beyond comprehension.
The swords of the cannoneer cattails
banged on him like a shield in passing
as he covered his eyes
to bull his way through the underbrush
heaving his mud-caked legs
over the hurtles of the fallen birches.
What animal ever moved
with as much clamour and damage as this
as it nosed it way along the soft lake shore at dusk?
He kept saying to himself
since when has the silence
ever needed anyone to speak up on its behalf?
What idiot spreads a starmap out on a table
to show space where it’s located
or tell time what hour it is
though neither of them have asked?
He kept saying to himself
like a swamp that reeks of enlightenment
now watch where you step
as he monkeyed himself up
a jawbone of grey rocks
to a thin pate of yellow grass
that looked as if someone
had bleached their hair too much.
He kept saying to himself
as he lay upon his side on the ground
and watched the wavelets on the lake making jewellery
and spotted the two great blue herons
on the far shore
standing like gatekeepers
among the dishevelled palisade
of dead trees with its stakes all askew
like an abandoned Iroquois village
that was content to forget what it knew of pain in silence;
he kept saying to himself
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
