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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476537" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Dancing With An Old Man Under The Moon</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dancing with an old man under the moon <br>with nothing but your tattoos on, <br>as it rose over the treeline like a mushroom<br>and as beauty is to wisdom, <br>the blossom of your fire <br>to the smoke of stacked firewood<br>waiting to be immolated in the Bonfire of the Vanities <br>like an library of fingerprints on paper <br>just to prove that we were here once <br>long before this autumn made a ghost of us <br>and we could feel more naked with our clothes on <br>than we ever have done with them off. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Junkies hitting up in a snakepit of desire, <br>the Burmese python a heroin addict in a swamp, <br>the high-wire act of the rose in the circus, <br>the aerial acrobatics of our noblest emotions <br>swinging through the unimpeachable air <br>on a one-handed trapeze that was the axis mundi <br>of the world in the aberrant orbit<br>of a lightning struck weathervane. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your body, a guitar; your soul, an inflammable violin, <br>when I wasn't burning bridges with you <br>like connections we didn't want to make <br>we were going for long firewalks among the stars <br>hand in hand like a couple that grew up <br>in the same neighbourhood that paid no attention <br>to whether they went out into the world and made good. <br>I was improbably inclined <br>and you were desperately uncertain<br>and we kept the little that was chaste between us <br>bucolic with shepherd moons <br>and major and minor dogs trying to pasture a rabbit. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some women are beautiful like moonlit gazelles <br>and Greek vases are, and you stand back silently <br>as you would before any masterpiece of classical form <br>cooly and contemplatively as if you were musing <br>in your amazement on a first magnitude star <br>it would be an aesthetic desecration to touch <br>with anything as unshapely as a human in love. <br>But you knew how to swing your hips like an hourglass <br>and I've always been happy to be suckered by time <br>into filling in on the night shift for a sacred clown<br>who had to meet a dead line, finishing a cartoon <br>of the constellations he drew for a newspaper<br>like an out of date starmap that had to cut back on its print run.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You came with doves, I saw them, with plaster casts<br>on their broken wings, deadly nightshade, black orchids <br>that had once been the shadows of beauty queens, <br>and the fragrance of big pheromones charging <br>the summer night in your eyes with an aura of urgency <br>you kept hid under the eyelids of your innocence <br>and I could never tell whether you were the salvage <br>of the witch that was drowned in a trial by ordeal <br>or the one that showed everyone how easy it was <br>to walk on water when you had to save yourself.<br>Intrigued by the dawn of your smile, by midnight, <br>I was ready to sacrifice myself to the cult of it <br>like a Druid with a lunar sickle to the apple-bloom <br>of a tree alphabet deranged by the dissociated sensibilities <br>of an occult muse just coming out of eclipse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I was making catalogues of the stars <br>that lay like ashes in my eyes when you suddenly flared up <br>like the saline spirit of a green flame burning in all my firepits <br>that began to feel they had the vision of a young dragon again <br>to see such foxfire blooming in the eye-sockets of its urns, <br>after the dark rain and fire storms, the excruciating pain<br>of living a life of coal predicated upon the possibility of diamonds, <br>the transmutation of the low into a union with the high <br>like a snake with wings that could ride, by God, it could ride <br>its own mystic wavelengths like a plutonic alloy <br>of the early Bronze Age just as the heroes were getting ready <br>to cut the umbilical cords with their hysterical, Medusan mothers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gratitude? Yes. You braved the taboo of the wizard<br>like a night bird on my windowsill, like a star <br>through the bars of my isolation cell <br>in a covert observatory buried underground <br>like a radical theater in a dead planetarium<br>staging doomsday scenarios for an unenlightened think tank <br>that never turned the light around on themselves<br>to discover that their third eye isn't the lens of a telescope.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And maybe you were the last hurrah of my flesh and bones <br>but, baby, you didn't leave anything elegaic in my blood <br>to prove it and I think it came as no less of a surprise to you <br>as it did to me, beyond the shadow of the searchlight of our doubt, <br>love had removed the black spot from my heart <br>like a planet in transit across a Venutian sun <br>and put it on your cheek like a beauty mark <br>in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Beneficent<br>to tempt Hafiz into offering Samarkand <br>to a young slave girl if she would only take his hand <br>among the rose bushes on the banks of the Ruknabad<br>even if it meant he had to account to the khan<br>for what he squandered like gardens on the moon. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Born with wings on the heels of my cowboy boots <br>instead of spurs, who so club-footed <br>or cloven-hoofed and sodden<br>as camels in a B.C. gold rush<br>as to dance with you in sensible shoes? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your hair was autumn. Your eyes were spring.<br>I lived for awhile, o who could know how to thank you, <br>for six months like a supernova in love with a black hole<br>at the vernal equinox in the thirteenth house <br>of the zodiac I still consult like a starmap of your tattoos<br>when I'm out walking in the woods alone <br>with the full moon that hasn't paled them in its light <br>even after all these years, still dancing with you in the night, <br>an old man circumambulating the fires of a dark bliss <br>by himself, certain he knows who he's dancing with and for.</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=476537" data-title="Dancing With An Old Man Under The Moon de Patrick White" data-description="Dancing with an old man under the moon 
with nothing but your tattoos on, 
as it rose over the treeline like a mushroom
and as beauty is to wisdom, 
the blossom of your fire 
to the smoke of stacked firewood
waiting to be immolated in the Bonfire ..."></div>
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