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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476463" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>And I Love It Out Here</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I love it out here this far into my solitude <br>where the stars are as high and holy and out of reach <br>as they always were<br>and everything that is finished irrelevant or gone to waste<br>discovers a secret peace in its exile and desolation <br>that doesnâ€™t distinguish one light in the night from another<br>and there isnâ€™t a road you can take that was meant for someone else. <br>Even when the wind blows the leaves around <br>like things I should have said to myself years ago <br>like things I should have known <br>that donâ€™t come with a Buddha or a book<br>heavy with bells and the blissful fruit of wiser autumns<br>everything takes its place<br>in the spaciousness of an infinite center<br>the dislocated cannot exit<br>and even those who have found themselves <br>to be nothing real <br>cannot enter.<br>Itâ€™s as if all things were wounded so deeply and expansively <br>by the wary act of their existence<br>the dagger of circumstance and chance<br>canâ€™t find a place to strike <br>and so thereâ€™s nothing to heal<br>nothing to fear <br>nothing to watch out for <br>that could hurt you any worse <br>than everything already is. <br>The wind on the water that trembles like skin <br>and the scales and feathers of the tangerine moonrise <br>shedding its wings on the serpentine mindstream <br>that flows off into the distance like a dragon <br>someone forgot to believe in <br>because they thought they grew up.<br>And time doesnâ€™t ask itself what night it is <br>or the fish the depth of the water <br>and the flightplan of the hunting hawk <br>if it has one <br>is merely what catches its eye. <br>Parsifal the mottled fool <br>leaves home with the grail in his saddlebag <br>and it makes no difference to the kingdom <br>whether he finds it or not. <br>The first shall be last and the last shall be first<br>and then the grass eats the grazer who ate the grass.<br>Thereâ€™s nothing to change <br>that hasnâ€™t already been brought to pass <br>by the leftover leaves in the birch trees <br>that abandon their bones like old shamans <br>down by the banks of the river in spring <br>for the fish and the birds to pick clean. <br>The silence is moss on the skull of a rock <br>sprouting elegant chandeliers of columbine <br>that hang their heads like streetlights<br>over a long road with no one in sight.<br>So what could it possibly mean to be a stranger<br>among your own feelings and thoughts<br>when there are no gates you can stand outside of <br>and the enlightened beginning of the waterlily <br>as five petals open <br>and one flower blooms advaitistically <br>is rooted like a deep insight into a mirror that rots? <br>Is the coming any less endless than the going? <br>Or an ignorant life any less life than knowing<br>you canâ€™t know what youâ€™re seeking <br>until it finds you like someone it overlooked? <br>The empty heronsâ€™ nests high <br>in the dead trees of the swamp <br>are full of moonlight <br>and everywhere I walk <br>frogs punctuate the sloppy grammar of the water <br>that unspools like one long periodic sentence thatâ€™s never complete<br>as if the world hasnâ€™t finished saying me yet<br>like something it means.<br>My delusions rise like waterbirds from a moonlit lake <br>to go witching for water among the stars <br>and I let them knowing theyâ€™re <br>the indirections by which we find directions out.<br>First you go down a lot of rivers <br>and then you take the road. <br>Thereâ€™s a scaffolding of dark matter <br>we wore on the outside like an exoskeleton<br>and dark energies <br>that exhausted themselves like slaves <br>so we could walk erect in our watchtowers of flesh <br>like the ego of a candle with a spine for a wick. <br>Black bones buried somewhere <br>that once were us.<br>Churches that wandered off the beaten path like gravestones.<br>Dark sanctities of a dead lawgiver <br>that entrusted the truth to a liar<br>as if the night had a sense of humour. <br>And everything is as it is without discrimination <br>in the eyes of the light that falls upon us <br>as if we didnâ€™t exist<br>though as far back as I can remember <br>my spirit has always cast its shadow upon the earth <br>like Venus on a moonless night <br>and my body laboured <br>like a prophet with a whale in his belly <br>to spread the word. <br>And subtlety of subtleties <br>wonder of wonders <br>my mind got a good look at what it isnâ€™t <br>and spontaneously learned <br>to be playfully creative <br>with the absurdity of being here <br>whispering into my own ear <br>like a wind that talks to flowers<br>descended from the stars<br>about how far we all are from home.</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=476463" data-title="And I Love It Out Here de Patrick White" data-description="And I love it out here this far into my solitude 
where the stars are as high and holy and out of reach 
as they always were
and everything that is finished irrelevant or gone to waste
discovers a secret peace in its exile and desolation 
that doe..."></div>
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