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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476568" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Every Word Turns Away</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Every word turns away <br>shame-faced and a liar<br>when you try to say things so true <br>they could only be contaminated<br>by a mouth. <br>And the tree in your voice <br>may be its own guitar<br>and every flower of your breath <br>be rooted in stars like the wind, <br>and you can spend a whole lifetime <br>trying to say everything <br>as if words could exact living destinies <br>from the names on the scrolls of the dead<br>to save everyone, to save <br>everything that exists <br>from nothing, <br>but when you're done, <br>when the tree falls silent <br>and the bird has flown away, <br>everything, just as it is, <br>will still be left unsaid<br>and just as there is no likeness for the living <br>there will be no likeness for the dead.<br>It is the unsayability of the mystic theme <br>that runs through us like a road through a dream <br>or the poem in our bloodstream<br>that is the cosmological constant <br>that keeps on expressing us<br>like waves of its own water <br>though we go looking for ourselves <br>like empty cups <br>to fill the topics of our names <br>forgetting like the moon <br>that water is its own chalice.<br>Why kneel by the water like the moon <br>to drink from your own face<br>as if it tasted any different downstream <br>than it did when you were a cloud <br>high on the mountain<br>when you can taste <br>the facelessness of the sea in everything<br>if you drink deep enough? <br>And there are eyes full of wine <br>waiting to get drunk on you<br>that haven't bloomed yet <br>and wells that your tears <br>are still falling through <br>like plumb-bobs and pennies<br>that haven't reached bottom yet, <br>and deaths that are antiquely your own <br>you must rise from <br>like the hosts of the morning glory <br>to show the gaping bells of your irrefutable ghosts <br>it can be done.<br>Words have bad memories. <br>Words are troubled sleep and nightmares. <br>Words are dead trees in a winter swamp<br>that couldn't wake a mosquito up.<br>Words are the ring of the gold on the counter top <br>that tells you it isn't true.<br>Words are a snakepit of spray bombs<br>that go off like terrorists<br>on any average day<br>in the market-heart of the silence.<br>Words are wanted posters <br>nailing their own likenesses<br>to the crucifix of a telephone pole <br>to divert their detection like water <br>from the tines <br>and witching wands of the lightning<br>that seeks them out like humans alone in the open.<br>And if you try to say the unsayable <br>by smearing the view <br>with a new holy book<br>what have you said <br>that isn't just more graffiti <br>scratched on a face reserved for God, <br>or the vast scream of the dawn <br>just before you wake up from the dream<br>to discover you're gone? <br>Words are the negative space <br>we use to delineate <br>the shapes of ourselves<br>when we talk ourselves <br>like water into fish, <br>like infinite, open-mouthed skies <br>that have winged their way into words <br>like autumn rain in the hearts of the waterbirds <br>that leave no trace behind. <br>Words are blind. And eyeless.<br>Words are boulders <br>in the throat of the impasse<br>when the mountain tries to speak <br>of things that last, <br>or mud in the stream of the valley<br>when it lowers its gaze like a poem <br>to whisper of things that pass.<br>Words turn the spell <br>on the sorcerer<br>and dangle him <br>like a participial puppet <br>from the strings<br>of his own grammar, <br>his own magic, <br>like stars in farcical cocoons <br>on the trophy-lines of his webs. <br>Why rummage through <br>the wardrobe of a wave<br>for something to cover your nakedness<br>when every time you go swimming<br>you can wear the sea? <br>Take a page out of the book of the stars<br>and keep words behind you<br>like seagulls in the wake of your shining<br>so by the time anyone can see you <br>that's not who you are. <br>Words are living creatures, <br>words are all eyes and ears<br>as vivid and vital as yours <br>looking out from under the autumn leaves <br>like a flower pressed into a book<br>that gives it no meaning<br>that it didn't have in the fields. <br>Ignorance doesn't eclipse the light <br>and enlightenment doesn't illuminate. <br>You may talk forever around it <br>but what's the meaning of fire<br>or sit by the mindstream all night <br>making constellations of the fireflies <br>that come together like words <br>and there may be no separation <br>between the water <br>and the reflections of the stars <br>that ride it like long-legged spiders, <br>or between you and the earth, <br>not so much difference<br>as a razorblade of stargrass, <br>but what's the meaning of water, <br>what's the meaning of the earth under your feet, <br>what's the meaning of that blade of chlorophyll? <br>Words speak for themselves, <br>not anything else.<br>Words are living voices <br>not harps in the throats of the dead.<br>A word is not a thought, <br>not an emotion, <br>not a stand-in for reality<br>not the verbal version <br>of the stem cells on your tongue, <br>or the eloquent fragrance of a brain <br>recruiting bees to chafe their pollen into honey.<br>You can spend a whole lifetime saying <br>and still not know what a word is, <br>a whole lifetime feeling<br>and not know what emotion is, <br>a whole lifetime thinking<br>and not know what a thought is. <br>Beyond appearances <br>that are not wholly <br>at the discretion of the depths, <br>nothing is the likeness of anything else<br>in the unity of their uniqueness, <br>the oneness of their oneness, <br>the mystic specificity<br>of many rivers <br>unspooling the mountain <br>to weave this infinite sea of awareness <br>into the myriad forms and tongues and waves of us<br>who take on minds and hang <br>like empty cups and water droplets <br>as if we were mere slips of the tongue<br>on the leaves of the morning glory, <br>from our own hooked fingers, <br>the black crescents of the lunar triggers<br>that play Russian roulette with our heads, <br>and the dreams that fit us like skin<br>and the lean watercolours of our sweat <br>on form-fitted sheets<br>when our separation troubles us<br>like waves trying to say the unsayable sea<br>to islands that already flow<br>like clear diamonds <br>that have mastered the yoga of tears.<br>Everything's like that<br>when things turn from solid to real.<br>Even these words.<br>Even in the fireflies <br>no one ever sees<br>deep in the well of the word, <br>even in the human heart, <br>the star, the rock, the tree, <br>in the smallest eye of water<br>that ever looked upon a summer sky, <br>the unsayable sea <br>of the whole of this multiverse<br>that sheds worlds like cool petals<br>from the sea mouths of the mind, <br>the life of everything<br>effortlessly exists <br>to explore its own weather <br>like water, to hold<br>its own life like a jewel <br>up to the light <br>and see everyone crowned <br>in a palace of water<br>whenever you say your name<br>to the stars<br>just to let them know <br>that you were here once<br>as if you meant 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=476568" data-title="Every Word Turns Away de Patrick White" data-description="Every word turns away 
shame-faced and a liar
when you try to say things so true 
they could only be contaminated
by a mouth. 
And the tree in your voice 
may be its own guitar
and every flower of your breath 
be rooted in stars like the wind, 
an..."></div>
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