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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476486" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Apparitions Of The Muse</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Apparitions of the muse <br>hanging her stars <br>from the end of my nose<br>like an exotic fragrance of night <br>more revealing than the light.<br>There. That's mine. <br>The constellation of the donkey, <br>and there beside it, do you see <br>that red-haired star <br>blazing like a woman with a carrot and a stick? <br>I've followed that star for fifty years <br>always a mountain away from the valley <br>like a passionate Sisyphus<br>rolling the earth up a hill like a stone <br>happy with my own absurdity, <br>happy to go mad for her sake alone.<br>Elixirs of moonlight <br>mingled with strange waters <br>and I drank until I drowned <br>in the ferocity of my own delirium<br>like a myth that's forgotten <br>which stars it belongs to. <br>I've never been much of a martyr <br>and bored with lies <br>I've always been two hells shy of a messiah<br>but I have fallen on the thorns of the moon <br>more than once <br>after my long descent <br>down the burning ladders <br>of God's last word on the matter. <br>So there's no splinter of the true cross <br>to needle the issue <br>like a compass or a crucifix.<br>And it still puzzles me <br>why it's always my blood <br>that rushes to the end of my emergency <br>like a volunteer army <br>but it's always somebody else's flag <br>that gets raised above the rubble. <br>Pyrrhic victories at best <br>when I'm not feeling cursed or blessed <br>by any kind of mystic meaning <br>convincing me I can firewalk <br>barefoot on stars <br>when I can't even get <br>this blue pebble of a planet<br>out of my heart like a shoe.<br>But even letting go of all their leaves<br>like starmaps home from spiritual refugees <br>the trees can only go so far<br>as the wind and streams will let them.<br>And then there's a darkness that doesn't taste of stars.<br>And decisions that cut like the smiles of broken mirrors. <br>And turmoil in the snakepits of desire <br>that are thrown like angry acids<br>in the eyes of the seers <br>who saint the rain with their sorrows<br>like old calendars of crossed-out tomorrows <br>playing x's and o's with the moon. <br>It's a freak of enlightenment <br>to turn love into a discipline <br>inspiration into a law<br>and godless wonder into superstitious awe.<br>So I listen and say nothing, <br>see and don't reveal, <br>understand but never think I know<br>the gates that pass through me<br>when I call out to the wild geese in the fall <br>and I am startled by the loneliness of the answer. <br>I've seen you in the nightstream down the mountain, <br>the river and the sea<br>that sits below the salt <br>at her own table, <br>and I still suspect it was you <br>that turned my bitter tears <br>into the brittle chandeliers <br>that fell like ice-storms in a fountain<br>to silence the voices of the mirrors <br>the birds kept flying into <br>like windows at war with the sky. <br>I was out of the egg. <br>I was out of my mind at last <br>like a gift I didn't deserve <br>and the universe was full of your absence<br>because you were the embodiment of my longing, <br>the darkness in the light <br>that stood aloof from the meaning of everything <br>as if your only proof were your eyes <br>and that were enough <br>to answer the empty skies with stars. <br>You may put on flesh and blood <br>and in your human proportions confess <br>you don't believe this, <br>but you can never be attained, <br>never be embraced <br>never be contained <br>by any avatar of who you are<br>because like space in all directions <br>you are limitless <br>and even time is consumed <br>in the root fires that grabbed you by the ankle <br>and pulled you underground<br>to dress a goddess of light <br>in the nocturnal jewels of the dead.<br>And it is not a prerogative of the beatifically born <br>to be demonically wrong, <br>but I have heard the skulls in the song <br>that allures the unwary sailors <br>to the lunar horns of your fishbone harps <br>to smash them on the rocks <br>as if you took a tragic delight <br>in the sheer delinquency of your power<br>to arouse and extinguish desire.<br>Anyone can come up <br>with a meaning for life <br>but you are the muse <br>of meaning itself, <br>the meaning of meaning <br>when anyone asks <br>without expecting an answer.<br>What woman that I've loved<br>like a river reaching the sea <br>have you not been<br>over these long, intense years <br>of radiant tenderness<br>and creative commotion <br>and an ominous darkness out over the ocean <br>when the moon turned around <br>like a bride in bed <br>and revealed the far side<br>she kept to herself like stars? <br>And it's still a shock and a marvel to me <br>when you disappear into the air <br>like a breath someone neglected to take<br>when it bloomed on the window.<br>I don't doubt your capacity to devastate <br>and I have the urns and the burns <br>and the ashes to prove it <br>and know on a whim of your arrogance <br>you could leave the phoenix out in the cold <br>and douse the dragon like a torch <br>in your fire-proof waters.<br>But lately, out of the flesh, <br>I look for you behind the eyes <br>of every woman I meet <br>and it's rare that I find one <br>whose blood and passions <br>you've worn as your own, <br>whose mind is a jewel of yours <br>that flows like a star sapphire <br>down a dark mirror <br>older than the meaning of life<br>that relflects you in the light of a black sun.<br>And I know enough not to ask <br>about those lockets of blood <br>you hang like thorns <br>around the neck of your mystic rose<br>like the first and last crescents of the moon. <br>I opened one once to see <br>whose picture you carried inside<br>like a butterfly you were working on<br>like message in a bottle you never sent<br>like a ship to the rescue<br>and I'm still not certain <br>I was demon enough <br>to survive the miracles<br>you released upon me <br>like a hive of angry angels<br>but I came to know <br>what the loss of heaven meant<br>when I ran from the garden <br>through the closing gates <br>of the harp you stuck in my throat<br>like a voicebox of sacred syllables <br>and came up on the short end of a wishbone<br>like another rib I was happy to lose<br>like third on a match<br>in trench warfare with any muse of a woman <br>who catches me blindfolded out in the open <br>in the crosshairs of an inspiration<br>she knows I can't help but surrender to <br>like a white Russian iris of a poem <br>to a firing squad of stars aimed at my heart<br>just to see if I were as ready to die for her<br>when she put her finger<br>like a moment of truth<br>on the trigger of the moon <br>up to my temple <br>as I claimed in thousands <br>of Zen haikus and enlightened alibis <br>that fell like Japanese plum blossoms at her feet <br>I was ready and willing to die for any art<br>where she wasn't the medium <br>that fired me up with mystic urgency<br>to write long loveletters<br>like a moth in a window<br>to the candles she inspired in my heart<br>like the fairest flames of life I have ever expired in.</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=476486" data-title="Apparitions Of The Muse de Patrick White" data-description="Apparitions of the muse 
hanging her stars 
from the end of my nose
like an exotic fragrance of night 
more revealing than the light.
There. That's mine. 
The constellation of the donkey, 
and there beside it, do you see 
that red-haired star 
bla..."></div>
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