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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476525" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Cocoons</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Weary of lies and the soap operas of fruit on the verge<br>of their due dates, weary of men and women and breezy friends <br>with smiles like illegal fishing nets across a river, bored <br>with the multiple personalities of stale bread growing pools <br>of blue-green bacteria like a bad imitation of the moon, the people <br>who landed safely from a long way up<br>	but drowned in their parachutes, the earth-bound<br>		curb-worn excuses that never learned how <br>to park a star without getting burnt; and nowhere to go <br>	with all of this unspooling of an old documentary <br>		that isn't me anymore than the echo of a diamond is; <br>sick of approaching the vital signs of every oceanic dilemma <br>	with the heart of a well, the mind of a winch<br>		and the balls of a bucket, without malice <br>and I repeat it, without malice <br>	because my mind is not a shoe full of interrogative scorpions <br>		and my blood has never gone white long enough <br>to call itself an ice-age and there's always a clown <br>	to warm things up with sad defeats and comic thawings<br>		and most things are just old bottles in a barn anyway, <br>tired of witching the watersheds of mystic sublimities <br>	that are always flying away like herons startled in the moonlight, <br>		or stars with the eyes of fish, lovers<br>washing the doves of their hands in the blood of a rose, <br>	jaded by the black translucencies of hell <br>		that smell like cordite and lightning<br>and leave ambivalent messages on a storm-coloured mirror <br>	lustrous as the eyes of a horse from a paid familiar <br>		amused by the fool he courts, I write this<br>to no one in particular knowing it's a way out of the stone <br>	I'm swimming through like ore, a dream key <br>		to a cormorant fountain of elegant transformations<br>that haven't been born yet, faces that return from childhoods <br>	yet to come, roads to go down that aren't roads <br>		until I walk them, all here now in the lifespan <br>of a heartbeat, singing like sirens of oxygen <br>	to seduce the wind away from paler tresses<br>		and rattling windowpanes. Little matter <br>who the return journey is if it ever gets there, finds its way back, <br>	there are fires along the way so intensely<br>		 beyond the last farms of colour<br>their serenity is their fury<br>	and all this world of discernible form <br>		in the light of that light, <br>a pilgrimage of shadows. And by that, do not think <br>	there is a secret eclipse up the sleeves of flame<br>		that rise from the candles of my adoration <br>because it was the world in the profundity of its playing <br>	that lit them in the first place to celebrate<br>		the way it hides from itself when anyone's looking<br>and the way it looks when anyone hides. So I hide my wave <br>	in the water and hang my fleece in the sky <br>		on the branch of a dangerous star tree<br>to test the nerve of the neophyte sailors<br>	who come from ports like me that are <br>		no more than a dropp in the bucket <br>of all there is to be. Now everyone is an effusion <br>	of this nullity, the creative efflorescence of a cosmos<br>		suggesting dandelions and dishevelled magnolias to the dark, <br> releasing black cherries and bells of deadly nightshade<br>	to wander the forsaken labyrinths of the moon, <br>		or shaking chandeliers of water out of the light, <br>worlds within worlds, fire harps in tears, and the brief urgencies <br>	of the eyes that put them out flung out over the grass like silver seeds <br>		in the way a dog shrugs off a lake, in the way <br>I've just emerged from the palace in the rock like a sullen metal <br>	stapled to a wound in a tight-lipped corner <br>		of a memorial shrine to unknown spiders, <br>and looking up at the stars rinsed out of the willow's hair<br>	released myself from this web of torn horizons<br>		by handing out cocoons to everyone for free.</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=476525" data-title="Cocoons de Patrick White" data-description="Weary of lies and the soap operas of fruit on the verge
of their due dates, weary of men and women and breezy friends 
with smiles like illegal fishing nets across a river, bored 
with the multiple personalities of stale bread growing pools 
of bl..."></div>
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