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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476498" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Background Sadness. Cosmic Hiss</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Background sadness. Cosmic hiss. Cool blitz of the rain. <br>Too late to do the fossils of the flowers any good. Grim air.<br>Morose silver-grey homogenous sky. Curds of colour. <br>Though the trees that have hung on to their leaves <br>like poets afraid to publish their works on the wind, <br>hoarding them like flakes of dried blood from previous passions, <br>remind me of the Library of Alexandria going up in rusty flames. <br>The drainage ditches are full, and the chandeliers <br>of the New England star clusters aren't shining anymore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This morning I'm the fragrance of smoke <br>in a bombed out city that's eaten all its horses.<br>A drenched scarecrow without a function <br>wandering through a field of shattered cattle corn. <br>More smouldering than combustible. The earth <br>lays a poultice on my heart like green moss <br>on the skulls of the rocks. And the agony of healing <br>sometimes hurts worse than the original wound. <br>Dark starmud clings to my lily-white winged heels. <br>And though the arrows of my words have been <br>fledged by the sky like ospreys among songbirds, <br>I'm still flaking spear heads off the obsidian <br>of prolific new moons. And it's hard to know <br>if I'm weeping like a candle that's still burning in the rain <br>or crying long, slow, pungently languorous tears of resin <br>down the trunks of the dolorous pines. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wet raw umber leaves stick to my boots<br>like decals on a guitar case of one night stands<br>like the lament of a bird moving from tree to tree<br>without understanding what it's longing for.<br>Too many sundials past the equinox <br>in the season of the dead, I'm hauling <br>the blue stones of my emotions from distant quarries <br>as I walk these fallow fields like a crop circle <br>with notions of refounding Stonehenge here in Lanark County, <br>stacking pagan trilithons out of heritage Christian cemeteries <br>as I close the endless gates behind me, chain by chain, <br>so nothing gets out that isn't meant to, except me <br>and the fox that's stopped to eye me <br>from the far side of my field of view <br>that's been abandoned to its own recourses <br>for the rest of the year in and year out.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I came for a casual walk, but I find myself <br>wary and prowling through a carnivorous solitude <br>like a drenched bush wolf in the middle of too much agriculture<br>and I'm many long wavelengths away from home. <br>There's a brutal exactitude about a life that doesn't love you <br>because you were born with fangs, even when <br>you lie down with the lamb to share vulnerabilities. <br>Some like it high above the timberline<br>where everything is as sublime as nightfall <br>on a good seeing night and the stars are so ferociously hot <br>they cauterize your eyes like focused fireflies of blue acetylene<br>so you never have to cry again quite the way you used to, <br>or if you do, your tears shatter like chandeliers of dry ice <br>and weeping glass. And then a black walnut tree <br>that's been unfeathered by the wind like a snapping turtle says<br>the trouble with wild predators is they never <br>get down to the roots of things. Come the autumn <br>they're still wandering homelessly in the shallows of life alone.<br>Too sad to argue, I nod my assent, and think to myself <br>so do your leaves, your blossoms, your seeds, your windfalls, <br>the burnt planets of your scattered solar systems <br>strewn at my feet like black cue balls that break for us all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I allegorize the woods to humanize my lupine mythologems. <br>And then there are some. Siloes of dark abundance<br>standing in the starfields of an emotional famine <br>that have been living on nothing but the crumbs <br>of the forgivable shining of their former dreams.<br>Sometimes think I'm one of them as well, among<br>so many fortune-tellers reading the lifelines <br>of the open palms of the trees. But I don't get fixed upon it<br>for fear the fireflies of insight I revelled in this summer <br>stop burning holes in my starmap that lets me see <br>clear through these obvious paradigms of the light<br>to the shapeshifting constellations of chaos on the other side<br>that unravel these monstrous myths of human origin<br>as quickly as they weave them out of nothing<br>so that in the end we're always the beginning of something else. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there's a hidden compassion in all of that. Mercy <br>in the mobile protocols of passage that initiate us <br>into a deeper awareness of the pathos of our passions<br>emptying the urns of our hearts like the ashes <br>of the Canada geese flying high overhead above the clouds<br>that our pristine emptiness might be renewed again <br>by the yellow leaves we're kicking through in the rain<br>like sodden flames strewn across the trail <br>beside the mindstream I've been following like the Tay<br>where the fleets of sulphur butterflies <br>timed to the weather reports of the dying flowers<br>have taken down their sails like the wings of old loveletters<br>to walk alone with the Alone without saying <br>anything short-sighted or humanly intrusive along the way.</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=476498" data-title="Background Sadness. Cosmic Hiss de Patrick White" data-description="Background sadness. Cosmic hiss. Cool blitz of the rain. 
Too late to do the fossils of the flowers any good. Grim air.
Morose silver-grey homogenous sky. Curds of colour. 
Though the trees that have hung on to their leaves 
like poets afraid to p..."></div>
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