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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476462" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>And I Don't Know If I Succeed</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I don’t know if I succeed myself<br>	in every moment, a hereditary dynasty; <br>		are ashes the continuum of fire, sorrow <br>the natural legator of joy, one thought <br>	the progenitor of the next? How 	<br>		can the mirror reflect itself <br>unless all things are mirrors<br>	drinking from their own faces; unless <br>		there are roses even as we speak <br>growing the eyelids and lips <br>	of young women elegant <br>		as eighteenth century herons and willows, <br>a poet who once dedicated himself like rain <br>	to the battered body of the moon, <br>		trying to turn his visions into atmospheres<br>that she might breathe again, <br>	that the atrocity of her nakedness<br>		might be clothed in orchids and grass<br>that shuddered in the gentle foreplay of the wind, <br>	now bagging grams like the loaves and fishes <br>		of a street messiah? In a world <br>where it is always autumn for the children <br>	who wither and twist like brittle leaves <br>		in the arms of desecrated mothers <br>whose wombs are trivial catastrophes, the flesh <br>	of their emaciate sons and daughters <br>		buried like shoes in short graves <br>pathetic with flowers, is art, is God, is love <br>	merely the dodge and deceit <br>		of the bored and obese, these <br>metaphors and symbols, this search <br>	for a truce among these unknown factions<br>		on which I ruin myself<br>in minor holy wars against ferocious kennels, <br>	only the debauchery and douche <br>		of a mystic luxury <br>that refuses to see the moon and the earth <br>	for what they are, a blood-stained rock <br>		beside a shattered skull? I love <br>the orange trollops of the wild honeysuckle <br>	and the open palm of summer stars <br>		that comes in the night for a reading, <br>I love the negligent beauty of the high fields <br>	and the radiant empires of time <br>		that suggest I was not always thus <br>in the all-night laundromats <br>	that pry through my dirty linen<br>		out of the corner of their small town eyes<br>to see if I’m deranged or dangerous, but how many times <br>	in a mudpack of disgust and laughter <br>		who has not reviled the self-indulgent facials<br>that estrange them from the truth<br>	of what they fear they have become, <br>		a pampered sin of omission <br>looking for the words to enroll their emptiness <br>	in a night school for working corpses?</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=476462" data-title="And I Don't Know If I Succeed de Patrick White" data-description="And I don’t know if I succeed myself
	in every moment, a hereditary dynasty; 
		are ashes the continuum of fire, sorrow 
the natural legator of joy, one thought 
	the progenitor of the next? How 	
		can the mirror reflect itself 
unless all thin..."></div>
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