Down By The River Again
Down by the river again
listening for stars to interrupt my solitude
like the first little nicks of rain to strike a windowpane,
I realize how much I prefer a magnanimous liar
to the tale of a man with a stingy truth
so much so I'm generous in my sorrow
with all things that suffer as I do
however dangerous and estranged
tomorrow might causally seem.
The latest casualty of a dream I had,
I sit down on a prophetic skull of an Olmec rock
surrounded by broken beer bottles,
that remind me of withered waterlilies in the fall
and the cracked shells of cosmic eggs
that took the plunge into the abyss
to test fly the flightfeathers of a new universe
like a baby sparrow on the edge of a nest in the abyss.
My mindstream mingles with the night creek
and we both flow by like avatars of time
wondering what oceanic theme
we might be the tributaries of
as we watch the willows wash their roots
with their hair, and the stars
dip their lures in the water
to catch the silver fish that school on the moon
like a poet and a modest river
that can't find any room for their emotions
stranded on the earth like wingless waterbirds.
Down by the river again, it's easier
to share my pain with a restless companion
in constant change like the moodring of the moon
than it is the meteoritic flash and bling
of the ceremonious cornerstones of life
who might give good advice to a building
like the Kaaba or the black Taj Mahal,
but know nothing about walking
on quicksand and water or stars
without sinking like most of the living
through the fathomless depths of their seeing.
Or the aboriculture of the orchards of rootless trees
tasting the fruits of their wanderlust
like the sad sweetness of farewell on their tongues
as they pass through the gates of becoming
the same way they came yesterday
like sad poems falling from the wings of waterbirds.
Sacred syllables pearling off their feathers
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poem by Patrick White
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