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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476554" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Easy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Easy to extract oneself from the climacteric of doom <br>that will absolve humanity of its horrors<br>by placing its destiny in its own hands <br>like a loaded gun in the hands of a child<br>by taking long nocturnal walks by the Tay River <br>among wildflowers full of farewell.<br>To watch the moonrise glowing<br>on the Texas toes of my wet black boots <br>as if they'd just been spit polished by morning snails<br>and sense the just proportions<br>and inchoate eloquence of eternity <br>in the trivialities of sublime coincidence.<br>How randomly everything fits <br>into this urgent medium of life and death <br>as if it played the tailor to its own emergence seamlessly<br>the way the mind stream cuts a path for itself<br>among a bewildering array of rocks and fallen birch<br>or a startled rat snake adds its wavelength <br>like a higher frequency to the laconic water<br>and yet no river has ever flowed the wrong way to the sea.<br>Easy to step out of the polluted light of the streetlamps <br>into the cleaner darkness on the outskirts of town<br>to renew my innocence <br>in the macrocosmic reveries of my solitude<br>enchanted by the mesmerizing details <br>of the mystically miniscule.<br>How the New England asters <br>in the middle of September <br>that yesterday bloomed like stars<br>in happier zodiacs than this <br>today are watching their eyelashes fall out one by one<br>and the daylilies that blazed with desire <br>wither like the kisses of old women<br>when no one's there to receive them. <br>Easy to accept catastrophe in nature <br>as the spontaneous gesture of a hidden wisdom <br>that our eyes are too dependent on the light to see yet. <br>The muskrat gutted by the cattails <br>by a posse of rampant coyotes<br>in a frenzy of panicked hunger<br>sensing the cold-blooded wind turn vicious. <br>Soon the air will bare its fangs and snarl. <br>Soon the earth will harden into knuckles of ice <br>and the raccoons semi-hibernate<br>and the blue jays come like thieves <br>to pick the time-locks on the sunflowers <br>and the seeds enter the cryonic comas of their afterlives<br>confident of their revival in a future beyond doubt<br>as the planet sidles up to the sun at perigee<br>like an old love affair gone cold<br>tilting its head away <br>to rebuff any further advances.<br>Easy to lose yourself in the life of the mind <br>and the phantasmagoria of reality <br>that makes you feel you're walking with gods <br>you'll never know the name of. <br>Turn your back on the world <br>and let your thoughts wander off like smoke <br>from the fire pits of lost caravans <br>that have pitched their tents <br>on the dark side of the moon<br>where they can make up their own myths <br>about the strange stars <br>that have misled them this far from home.<br>How the creek laps the rock <br>like a doe at a salt block <br>left out in a farmer's field.<br>How the water purls over the terraced shale<br>that looks like a burnt book in the ashes <br>of a fire that's just been put out<br>like the library of Alexandria. <br>You could do that. <br>And who could blame you? <br>You wouldn't be wrong.<br>It's hard to listen<br>the way you listen to a star stream <br>slipping through a grove of birches at night<br>astute to everything it's whispering; <br>hard to listen to the blood<br>gurgling out of a wounded child <br>like a poppy choking to death.<br>Hard to fine-tune your sensibilities <br>to the miscreant devolution of your own species<br>and not be savagely appalled<br>into holding a mirror up to nature <br>that blocks the view as surely <br>as if you'd put your hands up over your eyes <br>to escape it all and wake up somewhere else <br>where skulls are more natural in Eden<br>than in the abattoirs of human carnage.<br>A clean life with no skidmarks of despair.<br>No fingernails scratching at the walls <br>in the gas chambers of Auschwitz.<br>No graffiti under the bridges of PsychoBabylon. <br>No university students on the road to Damascus <br>tortured like Rosetta Stones <br>that have just had their tongues cut out<br>for not saying anything <br>that makes any sense <br>to the body language of the depraved<br>mutilating their flesh like slang.<br>Just the claw marks on the rocks <br>that have been sanitized by time <br>like the glacial striations of the last ice age <br>that gouged out the eyes of the lakes around here.<br>The bitter aesthetes of retreat run back to paradise <br>to study demonology by the light of fireflies <br>to better understand their fellow man <br>and live tactically out of reach <br>of their common inhumanity<br>where there's not chance of a ricochet.<br>Under a locust tree in full bloom.<br>A fragrant cloud of honey-bees <br>with as many thorns as they have stingers <br>behind a wall of zinnias, cosmos, gladiolas<br>on a hill in the eye of clearing <br>completely surrounded by trees <br>sitting at a picnic table <br>with a black coffee, cigarette, and journal <br>inspired by the beauty of the morning to write <br>before your lover wakes up <br>to tend nine bean rows in Innisfree <br>though it's eleven miles<br>and a hundred years ago<br>outside Westport Ontario<br>where you can hear the scarlet carillons<br>of the wild columbine in the rain<br>tinkling like delicate wind chimes<br>and modestly agitated chandeliers<br>plucked by the rain like the plectra <br>of home-made harpsichords <br>on the moss-pated rocks <br>of their composer's skulls.<br>No mediocrities in nature <br>it's hard not to feel like Mozart<br>whatever you're listening to.<br>No air raid sirens, ambulances <br>squad cars or firetrucks <br>screaming like banshees<br>like furies and erinyes <br>to the scene of the tragic event.<br>No fractious braying of political jackasses<br>grinding their teeth in their sleep<br>like the mill wheels of the stony bread <br>the rich resent the poor <br>like loaves and fishes and mice in the silo<br>boat-tailed grackles and black-capped chickadees <br>salvaging what they can <br>from the dumpsters of leftover gardens. <br>No pathological racket of garbage cans <br>being tipped over in a street fight<br>to end all street fights<br>like knights in armour on their backs <br>in front a shield wall of local police<br>picking them up to hold them for ransom.<br>No drunks and druggies in the hallways <br>only bats velcroed to the burdock <br>blinded by the porch light <br>and star-nosed moles and snakes on the threshold <br>the cats leave like offerings <br>on the stairs of the temple of Bast.<br>So much easier to listen to the eerie wailing <br>of baby porcupines high in the basswood trees<br>than the shrieks of a family <br>being dragged out of their beds <br>by an occupation army <br>to see which of their daughters sisters mothers <br>will be raped like the Congo<br>whose childhood shall be pressed into murder <br>and who shall be bred out of existence.<br>Easy to buff the crack of the world with talcum powder<br>to spare you from getting diaper-rash of the mind<br>and side-track the ferocity of your insight into the horror<br>with lightning-rods and tuning forks <br>you can break with your pinky finger like wishbones <br>torn from the throats of children <br>who didn't have time enough on earth <br>to learn to read the names on their own gravestones <br>if they're lucky enough to have one.<br>Easy to have a time-share <br>in nature's indifference to death<br>when there no place left <br>on the surface of a raging planet <br>that isn't a dangerous vacation.<br>So much easier to tinker with echinacea<br>and smudge the bad spirits <br>out of the renovated farm house with sage <br>from home-grown herb gardens <br>than it is to inhale the reek of cordite <br>or the stench of organic decomposition <br>of the adolescent flesh of the festering corpse <br>found in a drainage ditch among the weeds<br>like a lily that smelled far worse than them<br>on the outskirts of Argentina<br>in the stadiums of Chile <br>in the Tiananmen Squares of China <br>in the mass hysteria of the bloodbanks of Syria <br>trying to assail a nest of dynastic vampires<br>with a silver bullet through the heart of the cloaked one<br>in the radical slums of Gaza <br>in the Warsaw ghettos of the West Bank <br>run by Israel searching children outside the gate <br>for smuggled vegetables from the Fertile Crescent<br>in the native reservations of the originals <br>who peopled Canada <br>like a charter of indigenous freedoms<br>without any concept of surveying their mother like real estate.<br>Outside the emergency exits and entrances of Arizona<br>where immigrants beaten to death <br>and dumped on the pavement to die<br>abandon all hope of ever entering there<br>and bullfrogs squatting on their sheriff's badge <br>croak about getting tough on the mosquitoes <br>by hand-cuffing them to the food chain for deportation.<br>Flies eggs in the goat's milk. <br>Spiders sucking the life out of the jewel <br>in the heart of the American dream catcher.<br>All that is hideous, grotesque, perverse, <br>genocidal, fratricidal, patricidal, matricidal, suicidal and worse<br>than acid splashed in the eyes of Afghani schoolgirls<br>learning to read through holes in the ozone <br>by flashlight under the veils of Isis. <br>Seek ye knowledge even as far as China.<br>Wheresoever ye turn is the face of God revealed<br>like the encaustic portrait of girl that came unglued<br>like a multilated candle on CNN<br>trying to shine a light on<br>nur wa nur <br>what's dark and brutal <br>about the alif ba ta tha gim<br>of an alphabet in the mouth of an oral tradition<br>with an alchemical regime of hashashim for muscle.<br>You know how many dolls they collected at Dachau? <br>You know how many soccer balls <br>have had their feet blown off by cluster bombs in Gaza? <br>You know how many weathervanes <br>have stiffened their resolve <br>to look the other way like iron roosters<br>with alarmist political agendas<br>and industrious military complexes<br>as corrupted as the weather <br>when the wind is blowing the wrong way <br>like bad spin from the chimneys of Auschwitz<br>and Sabra and Shatila lie in the direction of prayer<br>like the gunsight of a Palestinian sniper? <br>Is this God's ferocity <br>or the inconceivable atrocities of mad men<br>eaten alive by Herodian maggots <br>seeking the life of the first born of every nation<br>to preserve their myth of spontaneous generation.<br>Sweet to see the shadows of the autumn leaves <br>fossilized like bat wings on the sidewalk; <br>to notice how they turn <br>in the same succession of colours<br>from the outside in <br>as rainbows sunsets <br>and the emission spectra of nearby stars<br>busy on the nightshift making calcium and carbon.<br>Sweet to know this and to wonder at it <br>easy in the mystery <br>among the dragonflies and the blue hyacinth, <br>nailing bluebird boxes out of the reach of the barn cats<br>and egg-stealing raccoons<br>to play your part in it like a companionable spirit. <br>Asylum from the world. <br>Sanctuary. <br>Diplomatic immunity among the great blue herons <br>because you've stood there so long<br>without disturbing a fish <br>they think you're one of them.</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=476554" data-title="Easy de Patrick White" data-description="Easy to extract oneself from the climacteric of doom 
that will absolve humanity of its horrors
by placing its destiny in its own hands 
like a loaded gun in the hands of a child
by taking long nocturnal walks by the Tay River 
among wildflowers f..."></div>
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