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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476477" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>And There Is One Voice</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there is one voice among many, <br>	one I remember as mine <br>		among so many drops of rain, so many stars, <br>so many leaves, flames, feathers, flowers, <br>	and the teen-age girl in so many corners of the darkness<br>		skeining her pencil webs across the page<br>to catch something, a butterfly hunting spiders <br>	that won’t understand her, <br>		and the lovers that have sifted downstream <br>from the radiant watersheds of their mountain plateaus<br>like silt over the laryngal deltas of my saying, <br>	black pollen of extinguished stars<br>I carry around in the medicine bag of my afterlife <br>	like mystic winds to keep the sails up <br>		like the eyelids of a blind rose. <br>So many skies have enthroned themselves within me over the years, <br>	so many waves and planets and legends of darkness <br>		and the shipwrecks and shores of the weather, <br>and the storms and the birds, and the shriek of the lightning, <br>	so many dawns and sunsets<br>		and the strutting peacocks in the twilight, <br>and the sumptuous nights with their illicit luminosities, <br>	so many banners of burning straw <br>		as I look for the one needle of light<br>that was the gate and the eye and the mouth and the voice<br>	of what most closely resembled me for awhile, <br>		before I learned how to slough my skin <br>and the hauntings of the black poppies who long to be clear began, <br>	and what was one threshold for a poet in solitude <br>		turned into a palatial labyrinth of doors<br>that swung on their hinges in space like birds and tongues and bells <br>	all the homeless whose last address will be a gravestone, <br>		all the hapless, broken wretches <br>who keep trying again like losing bottle-caps, <br>	and the women who came to the mike <br>		to sing like an ambulance, <br>and the atrocities, the murders, the obscenity, the weeping, <br>	that grabbed at my throat like severed hands <br>		to scream of the horrors and sorrows <br>in the bloody braille and crippled signage of slaughtered flowers. <br>	There was a boy. He was sixteen. And a prelude <br>		that grained him out of a black cloud <br>that swirled around his feet like a snakepit <br>	and pearled him into an eclipse<br>		that time held up to the moon like a crow, <br>like a telescope silvered by the eyes of the night, <br>	a black mirror that parted the veils of the obvious<br>		like a woman’s legs <br>and went looking like a silo of infinite space <br>	that echoed like a famine <br>		into what he was the name of. <br>And he discovered he was nothing but the shadow of the world, <br>	deaf mailmen, reluctant debutantes, car thieves <br>		with the souls of hunted deer, <br>hookers whose blood glowed like neon <br>	to fill the pleading mouths of a nest of empty wallets, <br>		and the arrogant, the boring, the vicious, <br>the scholastic tidal pools who conjectured <br>	about the existence of the great sea of being <br>		that overwhelmed them day and night, <br>and the arsonists who walked in the rain of their distant exile<br>	playing with their hearts like matches, <br>		and the bruised violets who hide their eyes<br>under the sodden leaf of an autumn journal<br>	that reads like the last ocean on the moon, <br>		and the treacherous, the bitter, the liars <br>whose quivers of feathered asps <br>	broke like arrows against the stone lions of the truth, <br>		and the assassins who waited <br>like the thorn of a sundial to blood their shadows <br>	in the eyeless witnesses of the crimes of noon<br>		and the reformers who wanted to cover the earth in leather, <br>put shoes on the world<br>	and wore out like flying carpets, <br>		and those who were born to salt the field <br>and those who were born to sow, <br>	and the rootless wildflowers <br>		that gathered on the corners of concrete cities <br>like fire on the wind <br>	only to be threshed by the blades of the moon, <br>		cut down by the scarlet scythes of harvest squad cars.<br>And he has lingered among the opals and sapphires <br>	and on the stairwells of water <br>		that coiled like rivers and women <br>through the hovels of fire and ash <br>	that consumed him like the memories of a phoenix<br>		that had gone out like a pilot light, <br>and drunk the stars and eaten the radioactive meat <br>	out of his own skull <br>		like an enlightened begging bowl, <br>and come undone like a bell of wine in space <br>	like a drunk shapeshifter, a staggering compass <br>		on the high wire of his spinal cord <br>when his locks were moved by one of the keys of the mystery <br>	that attuned him to the voice of his freedom <br>		in a vast, starless abyss <br>that wiped the universe off the mirror <br>	like the last breath of the light <br>		to prove he was irrevocably dead.<br>And through all of this he has been a podium, a stage, <br>	the gaping ellipse of the clear light of the void <br>		auditioning another dream for the talent show, <br>an advance scout in the night <br>	following rumours of stardom <br>		across the appellant deserts of the moon <br>like thought chains of migrating geese <br>	trying to remember their lines <br>		like the secret names of God <br>on the rosaries of their long farewells, <br>	and the only way to be anything <br>		when he turned the light inward <br>was to agree that everyone had the answer but him, <br>	that even the darkness that dyed <br>		the clarity of his waters with night <br>to detonate the fireflies like blasting caps <br>	wasn’t a robe of his own<br>		but the nocturnal paint rag of of the sky <br>that has been making him sit for his portrait like space <br>	for the last forty-seven years <br>		of writing shadows on the road like poems<br>that haven’t stopped crying for him ever since.</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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	one I remember as mine 
		among so many drops of rain, so many stars, 
so many leaves, flames, feathers, flowers, 
	and the teen-age girl in so many corners of the darkness
		skeining her pencil webs across the..."></div>
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