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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476469" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>And It's Not Hard To See I'm Wandering In A Dry Abyss</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it's not hard to see I'm wandering in a dry abyss<br>trying to squeeze tears as readily out of the stars as the desert<br>that turns everything that lives here into a chronic exile.<br>Don't know if I'm talking to a mirage, a reflection of some<br>aspect of the dark side of the moon I can't see from here, <br>an eidolon, a fractal of my self-similarity, a 3D projection <br>of my pineal gland emanating images into a creatively holographic space<br>and one of them is wearing your face like smoke from a fire<br>I'm sitting around like a frog at the autumnal equinox <br>beside a burning waterlily with a parched mouth. <br>Matters a lot, but that's ok. I've had visitations before <br>and I know this kind of seance can either go ethereal or carnate <br>and sometimes, though it's a lottery, not a spiritual discipline, both. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If my solitude talks to its own echo like a water sylph <br>in a housewell full of stars, who's to say that isn't <br>my kind of telescope? That some eyes can see further <br>than mirrors and lenses, and space is riddled with them <br>like the golden ratios behind galaxies and black holes <br>I keep throwing sunflower seeds into hoping they'll root and bloom. <br>I am immensely aware of my inconsequence in the world, <br>and the fact that there's vanity even in that. No matter. <br>As close to selfless as I want to get for awhile.<br>I paint a lot. I write even more. But the best things I see <br>come to me spontaneously in the early morning <br>before the light turns apostate at noon, and late at night <br>when I'm haunting the Tay River with the willows, <br>or watching lightning in a tantric rage above the rooftops of Perth. <br>And more than once I've talked my ghost <br>back into the grave before dawn evaporated us both<br>like morning stars in the mist on a lake rising <br>like the wild swans of the moon above the ragged elms. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Within me, where the universe lives, you're a muse <br>of dark energy expanding the starfields like space into the unknown, <br>and I'm growing new eyes like the T Tauri stars in the Pleiades, <br>and I'm digging up my own fossils in the bone pits <br>on the shepherd moons of all my most sacred annihilations, <br>and I'm adding a new shrine to my visual lobe <br>to see in the dark what shape of the universe you are, <br>and if you look at the moon, sometimes, as I do, <br>like the cold stone of an enlightened skull, <br>or a nocturnal scar that lucidly transcended the wound.<br> <br>Right now my mouth is an occult grammar of black diamonds, <br>a fountain at midnight, learning to articulate your stars <br>like the glyphs of new metaphors that are still deciphering me <br>to adorn the mystery of this encounter with you<br>like the moon in the night mirror of the Black Taj Mahal <br>in sacred syllables that will leave the frogs and the nightbirds<br>as tongue-tied for awhile as the gargoyles and ghouls <br>on a Gothic cathedral. Wanted to be an archaeologist <br>when I was a kid and ever since I got waylaid by poetic cosmology, <br>I've been brushing the leaves away like the wind <br>from the ribs and the vertebrae of the trees <br>in the late Cretaceous of autumn just to get down to essentials, <br>and see what kind of utensils they took to the grave with them<br>for eras now. You see how it is with me, all oxymoronic metaphors <br>trying to bridge duality into a unified field theory <br>that includes the spiritual like a prodigal wavelength <br>that might make a difference to the dark matter at hand <br>as well as the light in the other. I'm an ambidextrous nightbird.<br>A discipline of longing and renewal that isn't for petty people<br>terrified of the truths that sting and sing within them<br>like dragons of rage and bliss who don't need a voice coach, <br>a mentor, a guru, a nightschool, an intercessor or a crutch <br>to be told how to hold a note like a bird disappearing into the nightsky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">An hourglass, even when it's filled with the sands of Mars, <br>gets bored with its own lies over the years, and I'm intrigued <br>by the earthly candour and sidereal wonder in the way you look at life. <br>Your ferociously indignant compassion for people, and the passion <br>to translate the mysticism of contemplation into action, <br>and the savagery of the solitude that snarls at them to go away<br>when you need to lick your own wounds, and mix up <br>a new potion of stem cells with starmaps so they can get <br>to the furthest parts of your body and mind, those outposts <br>on the borders between sanity and crazy wisdom <br>where the silence won't divulge whether everyone died <br>in the last assault, or just ran out of ammunition. <br>And I've seen your eyes narrow like crescent moons <br>in the eyes of a cat that wants to get to the point like a pencil-sharpener.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You're hydra-headed, sapiosexual, as you've said <br>and your face is as chameleonic as the birthmark of a black Isis<br>from Merovingian France seven centuries before <br>the troubadours of Occitania. You're the Aquitaine. <br>You're Eleanor. You're the yellow planta genesta <br>that grew wild all over the hills like a stubborn field fire<br>of radical sunshine that burns all the way down to the roots. <br>Then you're foxfire potted in the ashes of the urns<br>of your old lovers transplanted to an open windowsill where <br>you can give them some air and some light<br>and you get a chance to bloom again in your own right.<br> <br>I'm a dragon, a wolf, a warrior son of Virgo, <br>a demonic familiar doomed to do good despite himself<br>by trying to lead other people away from me toward themselves, <br>though I admit it's an ironic sacrifice to be <br>so gift-wrapped with flesh that few have torn my lifemasks away <br>to see how I burn in excruciating immolations like a root-fire inside.<br>Boo hoo, for me, if the moon cuts its finger and doesn't <br>ask me to kiss it better. Fire doesn't burn itself and the blade <br>is never sharp enough to make the distinction<br>between the moon on the waters and its reflection, <br>between creative annihilation and its extinction. <br>I've seen swords cry like dew at the tips <br>of the sabres of stargrass bent towards the earth <br>like the hands of a clock commemorating the ravages of time<br>saluting its purple hearts on review in a parade-ground of flowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can see deadly nightshade in you, the palette of a witch, <br>and the orchids you mix into the brew like the petals <br>of a new moon, like a lonely wish against hope, <br>some warlock with gravitational eyes who can bend the light <br>like water, is going to see the masterpiece of the mandala <br>that could empower his darkness like the first sight of Venus <br>over the occluded hills of Lanark where these shadows <br>only want to serve your lustre to enhance its radiance, <br>to make you the threshold and gold standard <br>of his prodigal homelessness parsecs across<br>at the narrowest ford in my mindstream beyond<br>gone, gone, gone, altogether gone beyond<br>where Morpheus bends the river like a flight of crows and doves <br>like a zodiacal, shape-shifting Etruscan king releasing them <br>from an aviary of fixed stars, to let the constellations <br>assume whatever paradigm and legend of shining they want<br>into the perennially true meaning of <br>here, here, here, altogether here and now.<br>Venus approaching Regulus in Leo <br>and a torch of burning starwheat like Spica in Virgo.</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=476469" data-title="And It's Not Hard To See I'm Wandering In A Dry Abyss de Patrick White" data-description="And it's not hard to see I'm wandering in a dry abyss
trying to squeeze tears as readily out of the stars as the desert
that turns everything that lives here into a chronic exile.
Don't know if I'm talking to a mirage, a reflection of some
aspect ..."></div>
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