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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476449" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Vision Of Grief In The World</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A vision of grief in the world, so vast and varied, <br>so intimately specific, so peculiar to each one of us, <br>we stratify it in our brains like the fossil shapes <br>of wavelengths and membranes layered <br>like the flying carpets of the Burgess Shale <br>or the sediment of a mindstream slowing down <br>to deposit itself in the book of experience.<br>Things we couldn't understand at the time <br>and still don't, turmoils of stardust <br>that fogged our clarity up like a windshield<br>and taught the heart that feeling <br>cannot only be a chandelier but a chainsaw <br>in an old growth forest as well <br>no matter how many nails for the best of reasons <br>you drive into the messiah you're trying to save.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We're always pouring mirages into <br>the white gold goblets of the moon <br>and confusing our lunancy <br>with the hilarity of being drunk enough <br>to delude us into thinking we've escaped our sorrow <br>by covering our eyes to outrun the light. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes I can look at a housefly missing one wing, <br>rowing in circles on its back on a windowsill, <br>and my heart overwhelms me with a flashflood of tears <br>rising from an unknown watershed deep inside, <br>a subliminal empathy for everything that is lost, <br>broken, and alone, seriously alone, when <br>they turn the lights out in the labyrinth for the night, <br>and the wounded lab rats settle down <br>in the corners of their cages with their backs <br>up against the wall, until tommorow when <br>the lights go on again like a Pavlovian dawn, <br>and the savage humans come with their tormentive deaths <br>to kill the way they kill each other <br>with expedience and enlightened self interest <br>that whisper like contractors in the shadows <br>of pleonastic alibis for perpetual war against the world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No less susceptible than I have been all along<br>to what is emerging like a dark harmony from my confusion, <br>my well-informed bafflement, this road I've been walking <br>like a revolution on crutches ever since we lost, <br>as if there were no other way but love and understanding<br>even when you're ready, six times a day<br>to concede defeat without giving your assent<br>to the way chaos turned out in retrospect. Time <br>sweetens the apple into an approximately habitable planet <br>even if it's not Eden, and peace beguiles the soul <br>like someone left alone too long to the intimacy of their solitude <br>but the sadness of a seasoned overview mingles <br>in the sugars of life as well, and the heart, the heart <br>hangs heavily in space with no sight of a planet <br>under its feet anymore, except the abyss of it all <br>with nothing to fall toward or away from anymore.<br>A black sheep shepherd moon with nowhere to pasture<br>in the starfields on the back slopes of the world mountain, <br>with nothing to graze on but the symbols<br>that swarm its breakthrough into the available dimensions<br>of a future that can't happen a while longer without it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Human nature, an alloy of the highest and the lowest, <br>a three-edged sword, drawn like iron and blood out of the ore, <br>folded and hammered on the anvils of the stars<br>and tempered in the valleys of the fireflies <br>where cooler heads prevail, or the nib <br>of a silver plough farming the dark side of the moon<br>as if it were seeding sacred syllables in its wake<br>hoping they would spread like the hermetic lunacy<br>of tryng to make bread to share with those who hunger, <br>out of wildflowers. I was born with a bellyful of those <br>who try to make what people need seem as beautiful <br>as the gaping aviomantic fountainmouths they never feed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Michelangelo at Sotheby's, Shakespeare at the Bodleian, <br>how many families could culture sustain <br>if it actually got as real as grain in their bloodstreams, <br>instead of auctioning off the windows <br>as if Galileo painted something as obscene <br>upon the corrective lenses of his Dutch telescope<br>as pockmarks on the moon and sunspots on perfections <br>as one cardinal suggested he did <br>instead of looking as far as any of these three <br>into what is well beyond any of us to comprehend and forgive <br>insomuch if it's done unto these, <br>it's done unto the rest of us as well? <br>We should worry about a lot more than just cholesterol <br>placking the heart at its tinkling soirees <br>suggestively pointing out the gestures <br>of meaningful insignificance that beset our labours.<br>We should check out, to maintain our own well being, <br>whether our art has a green thumb or not, <br>or we're just leaving <br>the crumbs of our dreams in the corners <br>of other people's eyes to nibble their way </div><div style="margin:10px 0">out of a dark wood into the threshed gardens <br>and empty silos that ring as hollow as a carillon of bells <br>summoning a sad, sad seance to leave ghost food out for the dead.</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=476449" data-title="A Vision Of Grief In The World de Patrick White" data-description="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 
like the flying carpets of the Burgess Shale 
o..."></div>
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