Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476491" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>As Much As I Love The Stars</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">As much as I love the stars, I know <br>the spirit must seek its lost radiance <br>in the midst of the filth of this world, <br>even when its third eye is trying <br>to wash it off in tears it really means. <br>Under the half-closed eyelid <br>of the pine cone pagoda in oceanic meditation <br>is a fire-seed waiting for immolation<br>like an overdue urn about to give birth. <br>And do you see how the moon<br>feathers the waves with silver, <br>and the breathing waters so much <br>like the flesh of a woman undulating <br>under the caress of an unaccustomed hand<br>shines back like fish swimming through a starmap? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As above so below. Same with inside and outside. <br>Astrophysics is psychology. Noumena, phenomena. <br>Are you looking for a unified, field theory of your mind? <br>Study that small sacred syllable of a black ant <br>with the torn wing of a butterfly <br>under full sail in its mandible<br>it's taking back to the heap <br>of a thriving passage tomb burial <br>like a high card it's going to lay on the table<br>without intending to call anyone's bluff. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The moon on the lake isn't timed. <br>Death's not too late. Life's not too early. <br>Not all the flowers bloom at once <br>in a wave of mass hysteria at a sports stadium. <br>Time is as generous to the dandelion <br>as it is to the hyacinth or the rose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When a total eclipse of the soul <br>can be as illuminating to a firefly <br>as the enlightenment of the full moon <br>can be to the mad at harvest time<br>and the night bird sings on the same branch <br>out of the same longing <br>as the mourning dove does <br>on the burgeoning bough, <br>how far must a wave look for the grail <br>before it realizes it's swimming in it <br>and by virtue of it having never been lost or found, <br>like the universe you're surrounded by <br>dipping its other wing in the cup you drink from <br>like blood from your own prophetic skull <br>or an elixir of love from the goblet of a black tulip, <br>as an antidote to falling into a cult of trances, <br>trying to teach rattlesnakes to ghost dance for rain<br>when everywhere you look as far as the eye can see, <br>nothing but the bleached bones of their vertebrae <br>crumbling like aqueducts across a sea of sand<br>looking for the holy hourglass to green it again? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When things are like this, why send <br>a caravan of mirages like thought-trains <br>on a pilgrimage for water on the moon? <br>Is a course correction more innocent <br>than its original direction or is it <br>just another change of heart on the part <br>of a weathervane that thinks linearly<br>it's got its hand on the rudder of the wind? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Best thing to do in a storm <br>is let go of the wheel of birth and death <br>and either go down with the ship like a constellation, <br>or trust in a bubble-shaped universe you still might float <br>like a turbulent waterlily above the turmoil of it all, <br>anchored to the bottom like a key on a kite <br>to lure the lightning to your spinal cord <br>the way copulating snakes make their own caduceus, <br>twin wavelengths from the same inner matrix <br>ascending like helical thermals under a dove's wings, <br>so that dragons are born of cosmic eggs<br>that know how to heal fire with fire<br>that can consume itself like life <br>without ever getting burnt out<br>even when autumn's coming on <br>and you can begin to smell <br>the smoke and ashes on its breath. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Enlightenment the inspiration of the search, <br>the spirit returns to the candle in your hand, <br>to dance with the flame of life within you <br>on your own threshold, in your own doorway as you realize <br>like someone waking up from a dream <br>in their own bed, their head on a softer pillow <br>than they imagined a moonrock could be <br>at one sixth the gravity of earth, what <br>was there to aspire to that could possibly be <br>higher and wiser than a cloud circling a mountain <br>or down in the valley where the stars slum <br>once they get off the night shift, more compassionate <br>than a honey bee in the eye of a stargazer lily<br>smothering it in a rusty ochre dust storm of pollen<br>the way we prepared our dead when we lived in caves <br>to bloom like a hive when its spirit returns to matter <br>in its next incarnation as a gust of wildflowers on Mars. <br>Hawkweed and Indian paintbrush I would think.<br>And the unusual fruits and flowers that can sprout <br>from a windfall of intensely radiant meteor showers<br>flung out of the darkness by the hands of generous sowers<br>that were ploughing the moon for themselves <br>long before the ox of the mind showed up <br>like the blessing of a delusional dependency <br>that makes you think, gone to seed, you need it. <br>When the truth has always been mindful <br>and mindlessly green as the thorns and the leaves<br>of the locust trees in spring coming into blossom <br>as easily as the mindstream follows its own lead everywhere<br>with nothing but its own flowing for a navigator.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No gate, no lock, no pivot, no hinge, no waterclock <br>trying to put the fire of life out in a bucket brigade<br>of community-oriented arsonists, departure <br>never any further off the beaten path from home <br>than its arrival can be lead astray<br>by the shadow of the return journey <br>it casts behind it like the widening wake <br>of a waterbird's wings unravelling <br>the flying carpet of the water that wove it <br>like wavelengths of the hidden harmonies <br>that are on your side like your eyes are <br>when you step out of the blazing house of life <br>once in a while, into the expansive solitude <br>of your own inimitably creative darkness, <br>without a candle, a firefly, a lightning strike <br>for a guide, and look up, just look up <br>in any direction you wish, and don't pick any one <br>of the six thousand stars you can see <br>with the naked eye in the country, <br>no matter you don't know their names <br>or myths of origin, or much about shepherd moons, <br>or what an antikythera is, then run around <br>looking for an underground circumpolar sage <br>to show you on a starmap where your shining is at <br>like the light of the star, though you cry <br>in bliss and sorrow, delusion and insight, <br>you can't wash out of your own eye<br>anymore than you can Venus in the dawn <br>when you're sitting on a mountain under a Bodhi tree<br>trying to attain the unattainable empty-handed <br>in the same breath that's been giving it all away<br>for light years, inexhaustibly, like a flower-mouth <br>of enlightenment in everything you say or do, <br>the world in the creative wake of whatever medium <br>that's shapeshifting into you like water into fish, <br>darkness into star, sky into a bird on the wing<br>in a homesick sunset, or the shining of the source <br>like the lantern in your hand you needlessly labour <br>at keeping lit to go look for it without realizing <br>it's your own blazing that blinds you to the gift <br>of what the darkness arrays before you like candles and stars<br>and nocturnal waterlilies opening like a new moonrise <br>amazed by the occult mystery of the fire that burns <br>in the subliminal watersheds of your fathomless eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In this boundless space, why should you be surprised <br>behind all the masks of God, her best disguise<br>when the hidden secret wished to be known <br>and she revealed herself, was your own face, <br>your eyes, your mouth, your ears, your voice alone<br>pouring the universe like the light of picture-music <br>into your own ears like the spirit of a word <br>that can't be enlightened until it's been heard by you.</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>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<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=476491" data-title="As Much As I Love The Stars de Patrick White" data-description="As much as I love the stars, I know 
the spirit must seek its lost radiance 
in the midst of the filth of this world, 
even when its third eye is trying 
to wash it off in tears it really means. 
Under the half-closed eyelid 
of the pine cone pago..."></div>
</div>
</div>