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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476529" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Compassion Is The Sweetness That Enters</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Compassion is the sweetness that enters <br>the wounded apple of knowledge after <br>you've taken your first bite out of it. 	<br>It's not an antidote to the facts of life and death. <br>And you should know by now if you've suffered at all, <br>and it's impossible not to from the moment you open your eyes, <br>the night is not a reward, nor the lantern of the light <br>that goes before you on a graveyard shift of the stars. <br>Compassion is the oldest instinct of the heart<br>and first muse of the mind that can taste only <br>the blowing blossoms and bitter green apples of the spring, <br>gripe brain, before it ripens like a sunset in your blood.<br> <br>That's why the heart knows more about it than the head. <br>And I expect, on that basis, no one is more capable <br>of loving us who must doubt that we're worthy of love <br>to live up to the truth of it than the dead who can open <br>the tiny koans of the seeds at the core of things<br>like the lockets of fortune-cookies that break <br>like twisted cosmic eggs in a rush to spread their wings <br>like waterbirds who write the lyrics of their songs on the fly. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Words for the eye. Words for the ear. Words <br>for the voice of the wind like black walnut trees <br>and kites in a storm. And if you really know how to listen, <br>I mean if you can hear the wavelength of a black snake <br>swimming across your blood like a mantra <br>of terrifying, beautiful wisdom that keeps its secrets <br>to itself, or hear the unfathomable oceans in the black rose <br>whose petals and eyelids are always smashing <br>like white eyelashes in a squall of sunbeams<br>against the breakwater of a white dawn that passes <br>like an albino eclipse in a moonlit leper colony <br>of extinct black rhinos. If you even remotely <br>hear what I mean when I speak like this sleepwalking <br>through a dream grammar like a prophetic skull in a trance, <br>words that dance like light on the mindstream <br>rejoicing in the clarity of the voice that expresses <br>the hidden message encoded in the genes of the fireflies.<br> <br>You have mouths. Speak for yourselves. <br>Some like lighthouses along the banks of life. <br>Some like thieves with searchlights for eyes on a bomber's night<br>when everyone is underground and the bummers are out<br>plundering the evacuated houses of the zodiac. <br>Might be the ravings of a star struck maniac talking to himself <br>to make sure nobody else is listening. Might be<br>the surrealistic lament of a Dadaist night bird<br>singing out loud in its sleep for things it doesn't know <br>it longs for, or maybe a lunatic is waxing prophetic <br>in a labyrinth of his own echoes trying to sound his way out <br>of the mountains without end he's being trying to befriend <br>like a cloud or an eagle silvered a moment <br>like the ore of a dream in the corner of the eye <br>of a moonrise coming on like a hurricane <br>with a black pearl in its teeth. The eclipse of a sacred lie<br>compassion concedes to an alibi without a myth of origin. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Compassion is the child of imagination that identifies <br>with its simulacra of suffering by applying the heart <br>like a bloodbank to the wounded eidolons of eyeless images <br>that didn't know how to bleed, or breathe, or cry or see <br>until compassion tempered their impression of themselves <br>as paradigms of rationality, by shedding real tears <br>in an ice age of lenses that kept their illusory distance <br>from the stars that came out after the rain, wet and shining, <br>laughter radiating through our tears, because life isn't a dry fire. <br>It's the hand on the rudder of a lifeboat <br>that keeps you from drowning from the day you were born<br>in the undertow of the tides of the new moon<br>until the night of the full when you haul everyone aboard<br>who's been swimming through glaciers of tears <br>like baby mammoths for the last twenty-five thousand years<br>afraid of extinction if they ever stopped to catch their breath.<br> <br>Compassion is accepting everyone's death as a portion of your own.<br>Everyone's life as your third eye, a vital organ of your own body. <br>Compassion is an undisciplined action of the heart.<br>Compassion arises like a moonrise of inspiration <br>in the eyes of the older sister of the muses <br>who walks too much alone as if she'd devoted her solitude <br>to the suffering of a wounded stranger she met along the way<br>when she let her hair down like willows of rain<br>to cool the scorched earth and slake the roots of pain<br>until they bloomed like foxfire in the shadow of her passing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Most poets sit around the lesser fires of their art<br>trying to divine the smoke of what's burning in their hearts<br>like autumn leaves they've heaped into books<br>that smoulder in tears more often than they break into flames. <br>But if compassion turns her eyes toward you <br>like a star in the darkness beyond your blazing <br>the Milky Way runs like a bloodstream through your veins <br>and you see in terrifying clarity the great mystic details<br>in the deep watersheds of picture music efoliating <br>like wildflowers and galaxies, grails, fountains, <br>lunar herbs, and starfish raised up off the ground <br>to take their place among the shining, radiant with life, <br>in the low valleys and high fields of an imagination that heals.</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=476529" data-title="Compassion Is The Sweetness That Enters de Patrick White" data-description="Compassion is the sweetness that enters 
the wounded apple of knowledge after 
you've taken your first bite out of it. 	
It's not an antidote to the facts of life and death. 
And you should know by now if you've suffered at all, 
and it's impossib..."></div>
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