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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476517" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>By The Time You Say It</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">By the time you say it, you're a bridge beyond the last river of your lament. <br>	Is there meaning in this, content? Emerging <br>		from this cold oceanic reflection, how good<br>to wrap the sky around you like a blue woolen robe warmed by a fire, <br>	your lungs two bag-ladies sorting through the trash <br>		of your denuded coffin for any rumour of green. <br>A back-alley dog sniffs at your limp smile beside a broken wineglass.<br>	Your passions turn into mouths and eat you; your heart<br>		mistakes itself for the apple on the tree of knowledge<br>and dreads the approach of Eve. Today, for example, over coffee on Gore St.<br>	(just so the peasants don't storm the moat again, <br>		thinking we don't know where we're at) <br>I heard you wondering why the moon always ends in et cetera. <br>	Just to distract you from gnashing your teeth in the void<br>		and sticking your flavourless gum messiah <br>to the underside of the flat earth, I showed you a picture of the wind's face<br>	I painted under an overpass on primeval concrete. <br>		A fascist restauranteur enraged by the ulcers on his greed<br>preached his disease to an unwilling congregation of tables <br>	and jackaled our money away to the squat god of his digital scripture. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">		Fascinated and hurt, you surveyed the distant puppet-masters <br>of your own hormonal attachments assemble and reassemble<br>	like constellations at a crossroads and then <br>		got up to give your sad friend an embrace on her birthday, <br>fingerprinting your own sorrow with someone else's hand. The albino sun<br>	high above, opening doors and burning thresholds, was proud of you <br>		as I liberated another orphanage in your honour. <br>People on wheels went by, more nonsensical than this watershed of pain <br>	that pushes up a mad flower of poetry <br>		through the startled soil of an intimate, unknown planet<br>hanging from the first crescent of the moon like a dropp of water <br>	on a blade of radiant star-grass. You. Above the turmoil <br>		of your blood-weather. And now the vast night<br>crowds into the asylum of my ancient, weeping windows <br>	and the lamps go on like recovering suicides, their light<br>		experimenting with brown-out dosages of prozac<br>like something electrical trying to live. Alone again on the deck <br>	of an ark of phantoms beached by the flood<br>		on this brutal world-mountain, my field of vision <br>is heaped with the skulls and skeletons of warrior dragons<br>	who died true to a door that never opened. And if you listen hard enough<br>		you can hear a secret priesthood of serpents<br>singing the melancholic lyrics of their eerie toxins in lethal shrines<br>	under the foundation-stones of untenable temples<br>		abandoned to a slum of birds, fractured stairs and pillars<br>a crusade of minerals on their way home, liberated by an infidel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	Is it continuous or do we make it so; the last fifty years of my life<br>		devoted like a lover to the strange face in the moonlight<br>that beckons me deeper and deeper into her shining as if I were no more<br>	than a ray of her manifestation, each feeling moment<br>		whole to the furthest star, every thought<br>sufficient as fire, quiescent, an event of fabulous proportions. It's true<br>	things change and change is a clock without hands.<br>		Here now in the jewelled fish nets of satiated gods<br>that trawl the mind-sea for luminous, translucent fish<br>	that have schooled into vagrant poems<br>		for a gesture of provisional expression <br>timeless as now, I stop and bend like light to show you<br>	how the black water-lilies are night mirrors<br>		returning your eyes like water to the river. And yet, <br>most astounding of all, there is neither you nor I to witness it, <br>	nor anything that swims like the language of a lost people<br>		through these imagined depths, not even the gust of a god<br>over the stillness of the waves. Consciousness is the shadow of a living intelligence<br>	whose awareness and being are purposeless flower and star, <br>		all the worlds in every directionless direction <br>resplendent in the heart of a single atom, dust kicked up <br>	by a child dancing alone in a dusky summer lane<br>		with the scintillant gnats and fairies<br>whose lives are neither brief nor long, born or perishing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	Here, by this road of ghosts, touched by a wing, <br>		I offer you this expansive bouquet of galaxies, endless dancers<br>wheeling joy into joy like love into bread. Do you see? <br>	Nothing approaches nothing and zero gets up to dance.<br>		There is nowhere that isn't a tree, no moment<br>that isn't the whole of space embracing it, everything in this event<br>	already achieved. Why grieve then as if there were holes in the world<br>		when everything you fall into, someone's else's face, <br>the violet oceans of an orchid heart, this trance of enlightened play<br>	is nothing more than your own footprint on an Arab moon<br>		full of intoxicated rain. Gently, I lay your heavy head<br>upon the doorsill of your lover and for the moment, an elder of the wind, <br>	whisper nightbirds of ecstatic seeing<br>		into your abundant emptiness. The point is <br>that there is no point that isn't already the whole of the radiant point<br>	drawing long caravans, burdened with gifts for a bride, <br>		out of the dream deserts of her lostness and longing<br>like a star dictating love poems to a viper-scribe in the sand. Just look <br>	at the labour of these fools who contrive a hovel out of a palace<br>		and consult their blood like mud at the mirage of an oasis<br>for fishtracks. Here, I'll sing it again on a page of water<br>	because you are more beautiful and intelligent than the ones<br>		who stand at the gate and swear by dawn<br>the light shall not pass, because your suffering is transcendence, <br>	the original home of the many who make one face without flaw, <br>		because I am drunk on the whiskey-fire of autumn leaves <br>even as the spring tunes its green harps to the high-pitched valley hearts<br>	of ascending birds, every one a nugget of sun panned<br>		from the empty pockets of a generous dawn, <br>because great sleepwalking moons of faith<br>	are shedding your eyelids like skies and rose petals<br>		releasing mysterious fragrances of time<br>in the narrow alleys of medieval Bombay where blue-white stars <br>	feed their growing families by cobbling their tongues <br>		like new leather fixed with nails of light<br>to the worn-out sandals of pilgrim gods on the Perfume Trail, <br>	because even though there is suffering, ignorance, folly and greed, <br>		and death enough to glut any neon highway vacancy, <br>and hitch-hiking saviours galore to lie down with in darkness <br>	and rise in the light on magic-finger mattresses, 	<br>		because there is no less of your whole celestial orchard<br>in the butterfly that lands on a dead branch <br>	like one of your smiles<br>		than there is in all the thundering worlds<br>that fall like windfall apples or wild horses cantering through the night, <br>	because most people's seeing is a kind of love blind to music<br>		and you are rarer than a radioactive strawberry in that regard, <br>the divergent snake-roads of your witching-wands, violins of water, <br>	and because your great insight grows a secret heart within the heart <br>		of an embryo word and nudges it into flight, <br>the ripening celebration in the heart of a dazzled bird <br>	hurled from a thousand nests like rice from a begging bowl<br>		to express the joy she is <br>at the fathomless wedding of bride and water, drunkard and unknowing wine, <br>	I'll lift my voice again to you and sing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">		A black snake swims across the leprous face of the moon<br>unwrapping her bandages on the water like music <br>	to reveal her concealed beauty to no one.<br>		Isis and the Sphinx cry out like loons. <br>A singing water-lily offers its severed head on a prophetic platter <br>	to the breeze of a dancing girl, mistress of veils, <br>		who toys with the weakness of kings.<br>On the slightest tongue of the rain, a feast of maggots and stars.</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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	Is there meaning in this, content? Emerging 
		from this cold oceanic reflection, how good
to wrap the sky around you like a blue woolen robe warmed by a fire, 
	your ..."></div>
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