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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476549" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Driving The Same Road</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Driving the same road years later without you. <br>Looking at those things, <br>the boulder in the fork of the tree<br>like a giant slingshot <br>or the head of a baby <br>coming out backwards <br>between its mother's legs, <br>all the endless explanations you had <br>for how and why things got here<br>now nothing but voiceless mutes in your absence. <br>But absence is too kind a word<br>to intimate the subtler death I feel<br>drawing its sharper knife across my jugular<br>like the Sanskrit word for consciousness <br>as if severance were the compassionate side of vacancy. <br>There's nothing impaled on the dead trees <br>except for the occasional empty heron's nest<br>thrust through the icebound beaver pond <br>where we used to slow down to spot beavers <br>but it's still humped by as many lodges as it ever was<br>and the road's still not out of danger. <br>I'm much more of a stranger now <br>than I was then <br>to all these things that go on without us <br>as if they had never been cherished by us in passage <br>as roadside shrines along the way<br>like the collapsing one room schoolhouse <br>abandoned like the empty envelope<br>of a lost loveletter <br>that left nothing to say in return but the silence. <br>I'm out of place in this era of my life<br>I'm passing through like a ghost <br>with more answers about the afterlife of the outcome <br>that became of me and you <br>than there are sad questions to ask them <br>and my solitude is deepened<br>by a seance of one<br>and I'm so weary of wounded secrets <br>talking in their sleep about having no regrets<br>they survived everything<br>I'm praying like a dream with no luck <br>for a life I can wake up from. <br>The lightning-struck pines<br>we named the Three Sisters<br>no longer recognize me <br>and the gate on the cow-pasture <br>where they still stand <br>like stone-walled gorgons<br>is hanging by a hinge.<br>And the farm that was paradise awhile<br>before we jumped<br>where we lived among sunflowers <br>listening to the honeybees in the locust trees<br>and painting ten hours a day in the fields<br>for months at a time <br>further and further from home <br>until we got lost one night together in the woods <br>and were retroactively enlightened <br>by the dangers of finding our way back<br>like wary animals among animals; <br>the farm is a graveyard of backhoes now <br>and there are people in it <br>overliving us like a field gone back to bush.<br>I don't grieve our separation. <br>I know all the hairs we split to go our separate ways. <br>You couldn't be famous in my shadow <br>and I couldn't be anonymous in yours. <br>There were no Sufis <br>whirling in a gust of weathervanes <br>when the weather turned against us. <br>Just the vertigo of not knowing what way to go<br>but knowing you must <br>or go under.<br>Everything was blind. <br>Everything was a sign. <br>I didn't know if I could make it through<br>another new beginning <br>and younger <br>you couldn't wait. <br>So I left the gate open <br>and one night you closed it behind you for good. <br>I wanted you to be the first to leave <br>because I knew more about the deserts to come<br>so for months after <br>I just sat there alone <br>like a dead lightbulb in a dry housewell <br>sucking on my phallic thumb <br>knowing there was nothing left to keep warm <br>and waiting for my new teeth to come in. <br>I practised the brutal discipline <br>of being me on my own<br>when I doubted I had the courage<br>to bluff my way through the changes <br>as the abyss put on flesh <br>and walked around as if it were me <br>trying on avatars that couldn't save me<br>from the emptiness that embodied them.<br>I miss you sometimes <br>but less and less often over the years <br>though there's still more iron than rust in my tears<br>and I try with better and better results<br>I still can't quite forget <br>you put my heart like a rose through surgery <br>without an anaesthetic<br>and there are still dry petals of blood <br>you amputated like eyelids <br>snagged like tiny flags <br>you never honoured<br>furled around the thorns.<br>I still can't lawyer my way <br>through the innocence of your atrocities<br>as if the moon had fallen on its own horns.<br>Maybe you were too crazy <br>to know what you were doing<br>and you couldn't help yourself <br>as time and compassion would see it. <br>But whatever gets said or doesn't <br>things were just as dead<br>when they went to your head <br>as they were when they tried to flee it.<br>And I wasn't enough of an asylum to know why<br>my prophetic skull lied to me <br>like a bad alibi <br>everytime I excused my murder <br>in the name of your homocidal youth<br>as if unconditional love meant being martyred <br>by the loveless proof of the godless truth<br>you had made a mistake<br>and it was too late to correct the heretic <br>that went up in Renaissance flames<br>fed by Botticellian picture-frames<br>at the Bonfire of the Vanities.<br>You were a Napoleon airtight<br>that burned so hot<br>there was never any soot on your window. <br>My demons were martyred <br>for insanities they couldn't conceive <br>ever believing in, <br>but you were true to your deceptions <br>and I was blacklisted by the secret police<br>that tormented your paranoid perfections <br>with false confessions I never made.<br>And that's the way things have stayed <br>for the last twelve years on the record<br>like the striations of a retreating ice-age <br>that clawed at the rocks <br>to keep from flowing out of itself <br>like many weak threads from one strong rope<br>over the edge of the known universe <br>where the mindstream doesn't need<br>a lonely lamp and light in the darkness<br>to follow its own course <br>back to the sea of night it sprang from. <br>But what's saddest of all to me <br>driving through this used landscape<br>that used to be the way home<br>through all kinds of weather <br>remembering the innocence <br>of what we hoped for from each other and life<br>is knowing the abysmal disappointment that would follow<br>as if time didn't flow<br>it just evaporated.<br>It's demeaning to the spirit of life <br>to wish you knew then <br>what you say you know now<br>as if you always wanted to begin at the end<br>without ever crossing a threshold. <br>So I don't wish for anything more <br>than what is given me moment by moment<br>knowing what can't be taken away <br>is already forsaken<br>but that's not a reason to repent, <br>that's not a season of lament<br>that's just the way things are. <br>There's always a full moon <br>buried in every scar <br>like a harvest of starwheat <br>we leave for the birds <br>like ghosts in the garden to reap.</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=476549" data-title="Driving The Same Road de Patrick White" data-description="Driving the same road years later without you. 
Looking at those things, 
the boulder in the fork of the tree
like a giant slingshot 
or the head of a baby 
coming out backwards 
between its mother's legs, 
all the endless explanations you had 
fo..."></div>
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