Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476564" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Every Leaf, Every Page, Every Poem, A Patch</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Every leaf, every page, every poem, a patch <br>that's been ironed on to a leak in the mindstream <br>I've been watching from the stone bridge on Gore Street <br>while the Perth Water Tower stands astride the Tay River <br>like a Martian colossus out of the War of the Worlds, <br>its reflection wavering like the dissipating wavelengths <br>of watersnakes as the moon ascends like a pearl<br>above the ragged willows pouring their hearts out <br>along the shore where a long overhanging veranda, <br>an iron stairwell and several backyards end at.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A commingling of poetry and prose, I've got <br>to walk several miles out of this sleeping town <br>before a Zen cowboy can take his spurs off in the wild <br>and wrestle his boots like sections of chimney pipe<br>in exchange for a pair of winged heels that can fly by night <br>like an autumn waterbird. Let my life flow on without me <br>like a spinal cord I've been hanging on to <br>like a rope I used to try to climb up to heaven on <br>like serpent fire entwined around the axis of my backbone, <br>on the flip side now, an anchor chain of chakras <br>tied to my body like a lifeboat my heart isn't in anymore. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I lament the dry paper that became of the orchids<br>and waterlilies, the skin of weathered women<br>or an aging snake that slipped out of itself like a condom. <br>Autumn in my earth mind, I'm consoled by the stars <br>gleaming through the leafless trees of my emotions. <br>The whole forest floor, a sodden library underfoot, <br>trying to get to the roots of things like etymologists <br>reverentially deciphering the cartouches of dynastic words <br>that were once as common as the Huron all through these woods<br>until smallpox, the Jesuit, and the decultifying schools <br>that savaged their magic with white, and taught them <br>to turn the other cheek to the dark side of the moon, <br>brought on an onslaught of the Iroquois who finished the job <br>a few beaver pelts, an arquebus, and Champlain <br>in a war canoe, without really wanting to, had begun. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Somehow their ghosts in the birch groves <br>make everything seem more human to a trespasser <br>that responds more like a guest at a seance <br>than the host of the exorcism that drove them <br>from their lands. The moon's not a swan<br>and I'm not laying traps like a snapping turtle. <br>Nothing heals here, but the wounds seem more manageable<br>and death isn't a dirty secret sequestered in a hospital.<br>Everything out in the open you can even <br>have sex with the stars and nobody's eyelashes <br>are going to fall off like a haystack of pine needles<br>that blinked once too often at what they couldn't believe <br>they were seeing without their death masks on. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like the symphonic chaos of the place as life <br>over writes itself like wild grape vines climbing <br>a trellis of deer ribs like the palings on an unhinged gate.<br>It's really just a matter of taste what you prefer <br>to furnish your solitude with. I like to spend my time <br>in the company of things suffering the same fate I am.</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>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<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=476564" data-title="Every Leaf, Every Page, Every Poem, A Patch de Patrick White" data-description="Every leaf, every page, every poem, a patch 
that's been ironed on to a leak in the mindstream 
I've been watching from the stone bridge on Gore Street 
while the Perth Water Tower stands astride the Tay River 
like a Martian colossus out of the W..."></div>
</div>
</div>