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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476513" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Brutal Blue Of Twenty Below</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Brutal blue of twenty below, <br>a serial killer with angelic eyes.<br>The light slashing off the snow <br>like sabres in full gallop reaping throats. <br>Even the windows going through <br>a mini nirvanic death-in-life experience <br>to catch a glimpse of the fireflies<br>of enlightened diamonds <br>that let them warm their hands awhile <br>around their blazing, hoping <br>they’ll catch on and be back soon.<br>O sweet one, hurt one, wounded blue rose, <br>your eyelids have turned brittle in the cold.<br>Your heart’s a baby mammoth <br>caught in a glacier <br>that’s exposing you to the wolves.<br>Your tears flow like slow rivers of glass <br>all the way to the sea that rejects them <br>like holy oil on the wrong forehead. <br>Blood on the snow, lipstick on kleenex, <br>a haemorrhage on the bedsheets <br>at four in the morning, <br>a flag of the rising sun<br>flying over the miscarriage of a virgin birth.<br>You’re the Pearl Harbour that sank <br>your volcanic battleships in a sneak attack<br>in a sea of shadows on the moon<br>and now you’re waiting for the birds <br>to seed them with new life <br>like islands stuck in port for the duration, <br>waiting for prophetic skulls <br>to wash up like coconuts on shore<br>where you go bobbing for the head of Orpheus.<br>And you’ve learned that your body<br>can only say so much<br>and you’re stuck in the doorway<br>like a word in your throat<br>for something you can’t quite <br>put your finger on like a braille starmap <br>of where to go next, <br>a morning dove <br>in a chimney, <br>out looking for land, <br>smoke without fire, <br>that won’t sully your shining with creosote.<br>And it seems your life’s gone on ahead of you <br>into the starless abyss of a forwarding address<br>and left you as homeless as a loveletter <br>in an abandoned mailbox<br>that’s beginning to get the feeling<br>no one’s going to answer you back.<br>And even though you’ve mastered <br>several zodiacs like Druidic sign language, <br>the finger ogham of L.A. Gangs, <br>to make yourself well understood to the mob, <br>you keep being reborn facing west<br>and you don’t know how to turn <br>the baby around in the tomb. <br>Your singing voice is baffled<br>by the dawn that rises at midnight<br>like the silence of a zoo with open cages <br>where someone let out all the animals out<br>like nocturnal animals to fend for themselves.<br>And it’s not hard to miss <br>the forty days and nights of flood in your eyes<br>you’ve been lost at sea <br>like an ark washed out of your tears. <br>And now you appear here like Morgana la Fey <br>trying to con Merlin out of his art again <br>by thawing you out of that pillar of ice <br>you’ve been locked into <br>like a butterfly in an ice age<br>that’s booked like Alice in of the Looking Glass.<br>But I’m not the Mad Hatter, Merlin <br>or the Wurm-Reiss interglacial warming period. <br>Nor yet an aristocracy of trees <br>in the democratic grasslands <br>of a Saharan savannah <br>where the deserts come<br>like crude beasts slouching toward Jerusalem <br>for the restoration<br>of their delusions and mirages <br>in a worn-out hourglass<br>with eyes in the sides of their heads. <br>And even the crazy wisdom<br>that drips from the tongues<br>of enlightened clowns like rain<br>from the gutters of a house <br>that’s been stuffed with too many leaves <br>from the book of the trees with knowledge <br>can sound like utter foolishness <br>by the time it traverses the universe<br>to bridge the gap <br>between your mind and your ears.<br>So I’ll just suggest you start listening <br>to that small, inner voice of yours <br>that’s been speaking <br>softly to you for light-years.<br>You know, the one you keep ignoring <br>like a candle among the illuminati <br>whenever you can’t take your own advice <br>and go looking for mentors and gurus<br>like a first magnitude star <br>seeking the advice of flashlights. <br>Stop looking at stardom from the outside <br>and turn the light around <br>until you come to the omnidirectional edge <br>of the known universe<br>and then instead of balking<br>on the threshold of the gateless gate <br>take your shoes off <br>as if you were going swimming <br>and plunge that torch <br>you’ve been carrying for so long <br>into the fathomless darkness ahead<br>like a sword you’re tempering <br>in the great night seas and watersheds of life, <br>not the wishing wells <br>you’ve been exorcising like steam <br>trying to cool your demonic magma <br>into the islands of the blessed in the mindstream.<br>Be brave. See what the oldest stars see <br>on the growing edge <br>of the expanding universe.<br>Nothing but darkness before them<br>and nothing for a lifeboat<br>a starmap or lighthouse<br>but the shining they brought with them<br>like those bioluminescent fish <br>that find their own way of illuminating<br>the sunless depths of the sea <br>where each is their own north star. <br>Here you deepen the darkness more <br>with your eyes open <br>than you can with them closed<br>like coffins in a graveyard of eclipses. <br>Here the light of one star <br>doesn’t fall upon another <br>to enlighten it like a wounded flower<br>at the side of road in a tragic attempt <br>to catch the eye of what’s passing it by <br>only to render itself ripe for the picking.<br>The clear-eyed light of the void <br>is as invisible as space<br>and hidden as time <br>under an executioner’s hood<br>whose blood runs bluer than death <br>when something gets in it way <br>like the lightning flash <br>of the double-bladed axe of the moon<br>falling on the nape of your neck<br>to separate your head <br>like a prophetic skull <br>from the long wharfs <br>of its earthbound mooring.<br>Here the solid becomes real, <br>and the corpse of thought <br>is reanimated by insight<br>like a nightlight in a morgue<br>like a canary in a coal mine<br>like a firefly with a longer lifespan<br>than the flash in the pan of a starmap<br>that thinks it’s the beginning of a gold rush <br>when it’s just the same old iron pyrite in chains<br>that you walked in here with<br>your your heart up your sleeve<br>like a dreamcatcher <br>in a broken windowpane.<br>I’d give you the answer <br>to life and death and love if I had one<br>that wasn’t just another <br>rusting weathervane on the roof<br>trying to lay a windproof cosmic egg<br>with a cast iron flight plan<br>to improve the direction of prayer. <br>But what would be the use of it <br>even if I had one that wasn’t seized <br>upon the axis of the turning world<br>like a bird wheel that’s lost its bearings? <br>But you’re a pretty girl with cold blue eyes <br>this winter sky that drives its icicle<br>through your heart like a sword <br>you keep deluding yourself <br>you’re falling on like a samurai <br>to uphold the honour of your defeat<br>at your own hands in Tokugawa Japan <br>is jealous of.<br>So I’ll tell you what I tell myself <br>not for love, or art, redemption, <br>or a polyp’s place <br>in the Great Barrier Reef of history, <br>not out of ignorance or enlightenment<br>when the silence snatches my name <br>right out of the mouth of my solitude <br>like a baby hawk in a crown of thorns <br>tearing the heart out of a morning dove<br>like a locket of blood; say<br>what I say when no one is listening <br>to the rain on the roof with me<br>and there’s only a homely echo of longing<br>in the valleys of death I’ve passed through<br>like the blade of bird slashing through <br>the air of its wounded passage.<br>There is no message. <br>There is no meaning but that <br>you make for yourself<br>on your way to finding one. <br>Ignorance and wisdom <br>write and paint <br>in the same creative medium.<br>The heart is a fire alarm <br>for arsonists and poppies alike <br>Tattooed snakes on a scaffolding <br>of burning ladders aspiring to dragon fire. <br>Angels in the ash buckets <br>of Icarian over-achievers<br>who fell to their deaths <br>from the skyscrapers of heaven <br>like an accidental gargoyle<br>from a demonized Gothic church. <br>Just to be walking around on the earth<br>huddled in your flesh and bones, <br>or swimming with stars <br>through the white-water <br>of your own mindstream, <br>or salting your own good nature cynically <br>until the baby gets turned around in the womb<br>and you look upon birth <br>as nature’s way of keeping death going.<br>You can curse. You can bless. <br>You can live like a heretic in joy. <br>Or die like a saint in rage.<br>From a single wavelength of thought<br>you can grow a thirty foot oracular python <br>you end up consulting <br>about everything you do<br>as if it had already been done <br>by somebody else with a bigger snake than you.<br>Or don’t blink until the stars do.<br>No matter. It’s your face. <br>You can wear it anyway you want to. <br>But just to be here, do you understand? <br>To have passed through <br>so many lion gates already<br>that were only meant for you to enter by, <br>whether you came in through <br>the backdoor or the front <br>or through the window like moonlight, <br>or a thief that did b. and e.s from the inside out. <br>You’re indebted to the roads you’ve walked. <br>You’re indebted to the things you’ve seen, <br>the elements, the moon<br>and what it revealed to you, <br>and you’re way in over your head <br>in what you owe to the ocean, <br>trees, stars, the children who <br>came and went like fireflies <br>before and after you.<br>They’re all the embodiment of you.<br>And you, you’re all <br>that they’ve achieved to date<br>and they’re neither guilty <br>nor innocent of you.<br>Because everything in this universe <br>is complicit with everything else <br>including the judges, <br>and that means there’s no one <br>to answer to<br>but your own questions<br>and when you do <br>you’re only ratting yourself out to you<br>like a woman hanging out laundry <br>singing an illicit love song under her breath.<br>All this and everything that’s missing <br>the physics, the math, the art, <br>the myth, the mystery, <br>the lyrical picture-music of your mind, <br>all the wisdom, the ignorance, <br>the cosmological theory of you <br>shape-shifting through your own space and time.<br>This is the starmud you were born of. <br>This is the chaos and order of you. <br>This is the harmony. <br>This is the dissonance. <br>This is the house of pigeons <br>that would rather be haunted by doves. <br>This is assent. And exile. <br>This is the lost and found of existence. <br>This is where you come to claim yourself. <br>And this is where you give it back.<br>This is where the losers <br>aid and abet the winners <br>by wanting to be one of them <br>and when they can’t even manage that, <br>hope, at least, they’ll inherit their afterlife. <br>Now take everything I’ve said <br>and throw it up in the air <br>and let the wind winnow <br>the chaff and the grain alike.<br>What will root will root.<br>And who knows what bloom <br>will come of that? <br>When you’re ploughing <br>and sowing the moon <br>as I am here with all these words <br>I occasionally look up from my labour <br>when my blade strikes a rock<br>and remind myself <br>from a lunar point of view<br>at the other end of the telescope <br>I’m looking at you through <br>just to be walking around on the earth <br>making tracks in the snow <br>no one’s ever walked on before <br>is proof positive <br>you’ve got the right stuff. <br>And even to live in vain here is enough.</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=476513" data-title="Brutal Blue Of Twenty Below de Patrick White" data-description="Brutal blue of twenty below, 
a serial killer with angelic eyes.
The light slashing off the snow 
like sabres in full gallop reaping throats. 
Even the windows going through 
a mini nirvanic death-in-life experience 
to catch a glimpse of the fire..."></div>
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