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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476473" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>And The Poems Sit There</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the poems sit there on the tracks, <br>	on the shadows of serpentine ladders, <br>		without engines, though moving, without diesels<br>to drive them, chain-letters to the world, <br>	to a moment with nothing else to do, 	<br>		to lonely abuses huddled by the flowering lamp <br>like fairies in boxes of shy plaster, <br>	to broken windows who rage at the stars <br>		for not accepting their jagged black holes, <br>to lovers who spend too long in the shower <br>	pruning their gardens, <br>		every ray of light in place <br>as they go out to pale their shining in the sun, <br>	and the poppy girls with spider tongues<br>		offering little green crowns to the bees, sit there <br>without moving, though moving, <br>	pulling their hearts on long lifelines out of the void <br>		that fuels their furnaces with crows, <br>that rescues drowned sailors from the rose of the sea, <br>	that fangs the old lions with light <br>		to pluck the one-stringed jugulars of radiant gazelles.<br>Two cobras dancing, the hold of our hands, <br>	and the swans revealing their lizard roots, <br>		and the rain a small violet in the rusty passions of the coffee-can<br>I don’t want to trade blood with the sour wine of the snails, <br>	I’ve always had my own skull to drink from, and the water <br>		of the dirty windows weeping in the morning, <br>and there are faces I can lap like mirrors for a taste of stars, <br>	and bodies that unfold like single futons<br>		patched with small maps of nocturnal sugar<br>that glow like prophetic ores from somewhere deeper in the mine. <br>	Every morning I take my eyes out like contacts <br>		and rinse them in the grave, wash off the residue <br>of yesterday’s visions, the smog and the dew and the soot, <br>	the stagnant waters that cling to them like skies and skin <br>		and the little rivers of blood that show you <br>an aerial perspective of the lightning, fireflies, stars, dreams<br>	and the cinders of oil drum fires under all-night bridges<br>		and the black commas of what’s left <br>of the butterflies in midnight webs. And there are cocoons of birth, <br>	of transformations with wet wings emerging among the water hyacinths <br>		and then there are the cocoons that hang like pendants <br>from the trophy lines of fat arachnids, <br>	webs dripping under the weight of their hourglass stones<br>		like torn suspension bridges and swaying spinal cords.<br>And it makes me so sad to see a door burn, a helical stairwell<br>	straighten itself out to belong to a fire-truck, <br>		and there are other things, sadder things, <br>ants with pruned antennae, dreams who think like used stamps, <br>	the rainbow fingers of painted children<br>		washed off under a cold tap, <br>and the breast of a pigeon undone like a pillow by a hawk, <br>	the sad, abandoned look of heroic fire-hydrants<br>		ready for action, that sigh like empty watering cans<br>as they pour their newly-enameled transplanted hearts out all over the street <br>	like a wedding rehearsal that stood in for the bride<br>		who’s burning in the walls of the groom like a flower of fire <br>in the lapel of a black tuxedo; so sad, so indefensibly stricken by grief <br>	to know the paint rags are a better likeness of their sitters <br>		than a face is, that there are tiny screams in the grass for mercy<br>that are only answered by a praying mantis, <br>	and agonies of crushed centipedes that die like eyebrows<br>		and the hides of mangy crosswalks thrown down on the street <br>like zebras; so unbearably sad in an avalanche of tortoise shells<br>	excavated for their meat like raped bells with their tongues cut out, <br>		my mouth turns into a wound, <br>and every word’s a galaxy of salt.</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=476473" data-title="And The Poems Sit There de Patrick White" data-description="And the poems sit there on the tracks, 
	on the shadows of serpentine ladders, 
		without engines, though moving, without diesels
to drive them, chain-letters to the world, 
	to a moment with nothing else to do, 	
		to lonely abuses huddled by the..."></div>
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