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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476550" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Driving Up To Mayberly</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Driving up to Maberly for cheap cigarettes <br>at the Two Eagles Trading Post <br>across the highway from Silver Lake, <br>frost of the night, <br>mist of the morning lifting <br>in the blaze of the sun <br>in the bleach-blue sky<br>that wheels the reds and oranges, <br>and the wild, canary, grosbeak yellows <br>into their complementary hue, <br>I can't really see the autumn <br>until my blood stops thinning itself down <br>to peer through the lenses <br>of the watercolours in my eyes <br>and flowing, deeper, darker<br>turns into fire and paint<br>and dancing on the funeral pyre <br>of my last unknown masterpiece<br>instead of trying to walk on stars, <br>celebrates the crazy wildness of my solitude <br>by elaborating a world <br>I can almost forgive<br>as I brush myself <br>off the shoulders of the hills in passing <br>like a thread of smoke, <br>a parrot of ash, <br>a glaze of Prussian blue, <br>and cry like an arsonist<br>in an old-growth wilderness<br>that the trees don't wait for me to burn.<br>There is a void, an abyss, an emptiness <br>that wears a human face <br>in the presence of things everywhere <br>that are reflected back <br>in the black mirror of space <br>as the mystically specific features <br>of every mineral, plant, and animal<br>I've ever been.<br>I'm not just a figure in a landscape <br>I am the whole of the scene <br>and even in the shadows <br>that don't feel like me, <br>that are sometimes horrid and strange, <br>intensities of separation in faces <br>that have fallen far from the tree, <br>I am the child in the darkness <br>rooted in a fever of fear<br>that is slowly learning to trust me.<br>And it's been like this for years <br>though memory is just another way <br>of quoting yourself <br>more comprehensively <br>through the tears <br>that keep turning up <br>like Desdemona in autumn <br>to audition for the play<br>by drowning for real.<br>Have you seen October sumac<br>set its wings afire? <br>I wrote that in my twenties <br>sitting down on the curb <br>with Ben Jonson <br>watching the house burn, <br>writing odes <br>to Vulcan's acumen as an editor. <br>If you summon a phoenix <br>a phoenix will come<br>like an aspiring passion <br>for enlightenment <br>that will shake you like ashes <br>out of the Buddha's sleeve<br>where you've been hiding <br>from a world you didn't conceive <br>and doesn't believe <br>in abiding with anyone<br>longer than it takes to say good-bye. <br>Now you're alone in the darkness <br>with yourself as the only witness <br>down to your last match <br>like a tiny lighthouse <br>looking for a lifeboat <br>lost like a voice in the fog<br>and you strike your head against the rocks <br>like one of the black eggs of music <br>a phoenix lays in a nest of ashes <br>and suddenly the autumn flares all around you <br>like the sum of all sums <br>in a womb of sacred fire <br>that immolates you into being<br>the light in the night <br>of your own unborn, unperishing clarity.<br>Go ask the star, the candle, the maple-tree <br>setting fire to the roof <br>of the abandoned roadside fruit-stand<br>with its vagrant leaves <br>whose light their light is the child of<br>and how it is they all have the same eyes as you<br>when you don't bind yourself<br>like a nun to a cross<br>or a blind man in the mirror <br>to a match that has gone out<br>like the swords in the hands <br>of the flammable angels<br>who burnt paradise to the ground <br>so they could be doused<br>like the torches of autumn <br>in the retrospective lakes of their own tears<br>and know what it is <br>to die into yourself <br>like a god or a human <br>or a leaf of fire <br>like the torn page<br>of a calendar <br>on the mindstream<br>that makes its way <br>through the placenta of the full moon<br>all the way to everyone of us <br>like water through a dream<br>of things to come<br>that come of us <br>who are the magnanimous hosts <br>of our own transience.<br>Fountains of words<br>from a golden mouth <br>for the ghosts and the birds <br>that are always heading south <br>or like me, west, <br>up highway seven, <br>a shadow at the wheel of a sundial<br>or the spirit of an Ojibway outcast <br>set free from his burial hut <br>after ten years in isolation<br>without a cigarette <br>flying with the geese <br>who carry the souls of the dead<br>toward whatever afterlife they want<br>as if their futures were already forgiven.<br>Forgiven for having outlived <br>whoever we are<br>like the light of the stars <br>that go out in the wells of our eyes<br>so that we can see, <br>or the small search-parties of the fireflies <br>who won't stop looking for us <br>like a postmark<br>we left like a homeless fingerprint<br>on the lost address<br>of the last constellation <br>of the transcendent myth <br>we were born under <br>like a loveletter to everyone<br>written on the leaves of autumn<br>in passion and paint, <br>blood and pain, <br>in the cursive script <br>of every artery and vein<br>that throws its books and maps in the fire <br>like the posthumous effects<br>of an old affair. <br>And there, it sheds us like the apple<br>of an expiring art <br>that seeds<br>the myriad keyholes of the heart<br>with peeping toms<br>that lower their zeniths<br>on the star-crossed thresholds <br>before the promiscuous doors <br>of the moon-horned virgins<br>who wait like owls in the trees<br>for the x-rated version <br>of their venereal hagiographies<br>to be martyred into movies.<br>And as I said to myself only yesterday <br>life has a good eye <br>and anyone can say it and see it<br>in every detail of the passing scene<br>like water trying to hang on to its roots<br>but when the lens of the air <br>is angled for fire <br>like the third eye<br>of a deciduous choir<br>then it's one thing to see it<br>but it's altogether <br>a much more dangerously creative affair<br>even among the inane mundanities <br>when it takes more than the truth <br>and less than a lie<br>to be it.</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=476550" data-title="Driving Up To Mayberly de Patrick White" data-description="Driving up to Maberly for cheap cigarettes 
at the Two Eagles Trading Post 
across the highway from Silver Lake, 
frost of the night, 
mist of the morning lifting 
in the blaze of the sun 
in the bleach-blue sky
that wheels the reds and oranges, 
..."></div>
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