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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476444" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Haze Of Dust On The Windowpanes</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A haze of dust on the windows at dusk, <br>cataracts glowing in the epiphanous sun<br>that leaves the night coming on like a door ajar <br>for the light to get out on its own like a cat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the next moment all the eyes <br>that were on the road to Damascus <br>blinded by a revelation are returned<br>from the darkness of their clarity <br>to their normal muddy mundane vision<br>and I can see the birch groves from here <br>upping their quota of white canes on the nightshift. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And isn't it strange how things emerge<br>from one mindscape into the next <br>like a serpent shedding its skin <br>like a sky it's been consulting about wings, <br>or the effortless birth sacs of the dragons<br>who have made the same transition <br>from the lowest of things to the highest<br>like a flying doctor bearing true north? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Polaris and Draco wrapped around <br>the tilted axis of the earth as if it were <br>the sign of a caduceus in the hand of a messenger <br>that says night is the best time to heal<br>and leaves us to the moonlit herb gardens <br>we planted in the spring of our dreams <br>when wild crocuses where just beginning <br>to poke their innocent noses through the snow? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now the dark when the magicians come out <br>and the bats and the stars, and the fairies <br>are enthroned on their mushrooms and sacred stones<br>and retinal responses to reality <br>turn visionary in their pursuit <br>of an earthly excellence of their own <br>that doesn't belittle them again <br>as the gods and goddesses of a world of their own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And me, I'm sitting here alone <br>wondering if I do empty myself of myself <br>so perfectly there's no one left to tell me <br>I've finally become no one fit enough <br>to lift the veils of Isis without expecting <br>to find just another starmap in hiding.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or if I've rinsed myself clean enough of myself <br>to be washed from her eyes in tears<br>that fall like mirrors of mercury<br>in a fever of mystic thermometers<br>stuck under my tongue <br>like the silver bird bone flutes<br>of the perennial theme songs <br>I've been offering to ferrymen <br>in lieu of the obol of the full moon, <br>my penny in a wishing well, <br>to pay for my passage into death and back<br>like an enlightened return journey of a poet <br>who knows how to find his way home on his own<br>like a prophetic Orphic skull.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ride the dragon. Play the flute of fire. <br>Cast a spell on the winter sunset <br>and take it off again in spring. O<br>inestimable nothing <br>what could I ask of the flower <br>that I didn't receive from the leaf? <br>It takes a rootless tree <br>to show you the way home. <br>But it doesn't take a road to know you've left. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can hear my eyes weeping behind a deathmask. <br>Early wood sorrel under a leaf of duff. <br>Venus is in my rain washed window, <br>closer than blood could ever be. <br>The sky thinks it's a strutting peacock<br>but I know I painted that window <br>well over a year ago when I grew weary <br>of being myself like a stage without a play. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Do you know me yet? Can't you tell <br>when the roses bloom in the palm of my hand<br>like the stigmata of a starfish on the moon, <br>I'm the lost cause of a shadow <br>demanding more of the light <br>than a sacred clown on a burning ladder<br>could possibly know what to do with? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meagre, meagre me. What immensities<br>I aspire to with a broken bouquet of arrows<br>like stalks of wheat in Virgo after a hailstorm. <br>I am not the slayer. I am not the slain.<br>I don't hold the crescent moon up to my jugular vein. <br>Or cut the throats of poppies to milk the dream. <br>And I don't care a hair for the difference <br>between the enlightened and insane.<br>I look at Venus through my windowpane<br>and the window's clean. Burn white. Burn silent.<br>Express yourself, but don't ask it to mean <br>anything more than you are to yourself<br>when no one's home, including you, <br>and you're shining for someone else.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476444" data-title="A Haze Of Dust On The Windowpanes de Patrick White" data-description="A haze of dust on the windows at dusk, 
cataracts glowing in the epiphanous sun
that leaves the night coming on like a door ajar 
for the light to get out on its own like a cat. 

And the next moment all the eyes 
that were on the road to Damascus..."></div>
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