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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476500" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Barley Moon, Tonight</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Barley moon, tonight. Hurt deeply but don't know why. <br>The threshers and the raccoons and soon the Canada geese <br>have already done their work, so there's nothing to harvest <br>but a few cobs and kernels of cattle corn that look like <br>they have bad teeth. Pale yellow ochre ribbons of the moon <br>that flake like the acephalic pages of old holy books. <br>Something unknown is trying to be born of my emptiness. <br>My heart and my body strain to sustain sufficient gravity <br>to hold it in its orbit long enough to attain fruition <br>and hopefully, then, we can both let go of the labour<br>of trying not to let go of the climber that fell over the cliff <br>tied to our spinal cord like a burning box-kite <br>or the arrested development of a corpse past its prime. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For all the fury of their clarity in the cold air, <br>the stars seem more distant, aloof enough to be cruel, <br>almost savage like these fields returning to their own agendas, <br>purple loosestrife and mustard, and the hopeless green <br>of stunted plants trying to get their time in before the first snow. <br>I've walked these meandering dirt roads before, <br>but now everything's gone inside, except for a few dogs, <br>and there are no lights on at the farm. I don't care<br>where I'm going. I just walk. I just look. Exiled by the outside <br>of what's sleeping in the hearts of the farmers <br>and raccoons alike, as the nights grow colder and longer <br>and the grave stars seem to shine brighter <br>the fewer there are eyes to see how radiant they are on their own. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Burridge up ahead, a gas pump, a grocery store, <br>a hippie who makes brooms. Think I'll just keep on walking <br>until I run out of road, and after that, have to make <br>my own path through the woods to sit beside<br>a small unnamed lake with the wisdom of a sage <br>that's got nothing to impart to me but what I came with.<br>And I can nurse the subliminal agony of a poet on the Milky Way, <br>bemused by the passage of all things around me <br>as if they too were walking the same Road of Ghosts I am. <br>I see the beauty. I see the bat flash across the moon. <br>I feel the mythically inflated sublimity <br>of my comparative inconsequence. I lament<br>the rubbish of the last flowers of the season, <br>the trashing of the wild irises as if they were all wrapping <br>with no gifts inside. I wonder what death is. What purpose, <br>if any, life serves, if it isn't just here to serve itself.</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=476500" data-title="Barley Moon, Tonight de Patrick White" data-description="Barley moon, tonight. Hurt deeply but don't know why. 
The threshers and the raccoons and soon the Canada geese 
have already done their work, so there's nothing to harvest 
but a few cobs and kernels of cattle corn that look like 
they have bad t..."></div>
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