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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476563" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Every Insight, The Big Bang, And The Thought That Follows, A Universe</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Every insight, the Big Bang, and the thought that follows, a universe. <br>Every image that flashes across the moonscape like a silhouette <br>in reverse of the dark matter and starmud that surrounds it, <br>a black swan among the white when there's snow on the river. <br>Worlds bubbling out of the mouth of a fish through a hole in the ice <br>that looks like the third eye of a glacier taking a long, hard look <br>at whether it was worth opening all those lakes <br>and then filling them like eyes with the runoff of its own tears<br>as it disappears into a more fertile approach to letting go of itself.<br> <br>I could always see a human shape hidden in the landscape <br>and I wanted to free it so I scraped and gouged <br>and dug my way into it like a dog unearthing the fossil <br>of a distant ancestor that ran with the wolves.<br>Even now when their ghosts howl it's a sad ballad <br>of the lyrical hills going mad by themselves<br>and sometimes it breaks my heart like water <br>in the cleft of a pseudomorphic rock to write picture-music<br>in striated cuneiform on the cliff faces to sing to themselves<br>like a lost people with more legend than life in its veins. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can take a single thread and weave it into a flying carpet. <br>I can take a string theory and make it resonate with membranes <br>that occasionally break their eardrums like water from a womb. <br>There are protocols of the imagination that have been imposed <br>by iconic means like straitjackets fitted to the inside of your psyche. <br>Cuckoos in your nest, memes in your mind, <br>nudging your cosmic eggs out to smash on the rocks below<br>like the stillborn of the sun. Embryos and fractals, <br>astronomical forensics sweeping the night sky for fetal stars, <br>hidden paradigms ferreted out like secrets <br>that will bloom each in their own good time <br>like the mysteries of life unravelling <br>the sequel of a waterclock that keeps on outliving itself<br>by transcending its own emptiness by pouring itself out <br>like a serpent that's always shedding its own skin <br>or a zodiac confabulating a false dawn <br>of mythically deflated metaphors, red giants<br>burnt out into black dwarfs and sink holes <br>where the stars plunge like butterflies into <br>the gaping maw of the dragon that consumes them like krill, <br>knowing its destiny, too, is just a provisional scaffolding of quicksand. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, but how many make it all the way through <br>like wild salmon responding to the death call <br>of the spawning ground on the far side of the white hole<br>when the hourglass gets turned around like a fountain <br>instead of leaking out of a mortal wound in the side of the universe? <br>The morphology of knowledge is the history of shapeshifters.<br>Cosmology is an aesthetic expression of enculturated preferences. <br>Zero among the Hindus the form of the abundance of their emptiness. <br>Among the Greeks, a political exile. And for a Westerner <br>far sighted enough to see in aerial perspective, <br>the bluing of a way of life that's always over the next hill.<br>Sight is a kind of love I once read on a poster the sixties. <br>So astronomy for poets. And poets for astronomy. <br>Observatories on forbidden mountain tops <br>opening their eyes like blind prophets to the visions <br>engendered by a seven year eclipse of their visuals.<br>Who hasn't stepped out of their own well lit doorway <br>and walked up to the high field on a cold winter night <br>and watched their breath mingle with the Milky Way <br>like a tributary of a river on intimate terms with the mindstream <br>we're all flowing into like red-tailed hawks <br>riding our own thermals for the sheer joy of it <br>down the helical stairwells of our own polished bannisters of dna. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Twenty years a Druid in a vatic college learning <br>to speak to trees in the demotic of their own alphabet, <br>poetry isn't the calling of a clown or a gleeman <br>amusing the whimsical caprice of the king's court, <br>it's a summons to risk your life exploring the mystery <br>of every facet of what you're doing here turning jewels <br>like stars in the translucency of your own light<br>reflected in a brainstorm of parabolic mirrors that bloom at night. <br>Haul yourself up out of your tidal pool of awareness <br>into the rarefied bliss of a whole new medium that exceeds <br>the planetary boundary stones of the space time continuum<br>you've been so far, by devoting your disobedience<br>by bringing back enlightened serpent fire<br>from the hearths and the middens in the starfields <br>of the gods who first domesticated it like a selective ordeal of birth<br>in the imagination of a hungry human thief enough <br>to root a new kind of lightning in the earth that bears <br>all the birthmarks of the compassionate fruits of insight<br>into the nature of a mind that embodies all this <br>as if one moment the crescents of the moon were scars on its eyes <br>and the next, the talons of an owl flying out of the abyss in the grip <br>of a nocturnal imagination that's as wise as it is dangerous. <br> <br>All my thoughts have fingertips. Blood your abstractions. <br>Lavish your mindstream on the available dimensions of the future <br>as if what you wanted to achieve were already behind you <br>like a star in pursuit of an earthly excellence. <br>Humanize the uninhabitable as if it were just <br>another room in a spatially enchanted palace<br>you haven't finished yet like Thomas Jefferson. <br>If you look for the cure in the heart of the disease, <br>by corollary, look for the disease in the heart of the cure <br>like the lesser vehicle in a pathology of grails. <br>Safer to drink from your own skull to an eclipse <br>that patched the eye of the moon with the crossbones <br>of its colours, than sip rainbows from the goblets <br>of lilaceous irises blooming like an effulgent halo <br>around the pupil of a black hole on a starless night <br>anticipating a cadaverous moonrise<br>like the dark beginning of death breaking into <br>the unimaginable radiance of another side to all this <br>that makes the light seem a mere carbon copy <br>of the shining that can be emanated by an enlightened mind<br>that never hesitates to contaminate the purity<br>of its numinous ignorance for the sake <br>of opening the gate like an exile to a secret garden<br>everybody must enter at the crossroads of a threshold <br>without the screening myth of a backdoor to duck out of.</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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Every image that flashes across the moonscape like a silhouette 
in reverse of the dark matter and starmud that surrounds it, 
a black swan among the white when there's snow o..."></div>
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