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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476587" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Full Moon And The Mournful Thunder Of A Train</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Full moon and the mournful thunder of a train <br>passing through town. Venus, Jupiter, Mercury <br>long gone down for the rest of the night. <br>Orion a pale imitation of itself in the west. <br>Mars near Regulus, the little king with the heart of the lion, <br>and Saturn off to the east. Like water returned <br>to the river it came from, everything immersed <br>in the fluidity of silence <br>swimming through the trees<br>as if virgins were older than fish at the spring equinox. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A habit of wandering when no one else is around <br>walks me out of town like some unknown journey <br>stringing my feet along with a line<br>and two minutes with a lunar hook dangling <br>in the effluvial plains of the moon's volcanic seas<br>as if I needed to be played into it by the sacred syllables<br>of ancient starmaps talking in tongues like oceans of awareness <br>into the ears of the seashells who can repeat <br>every word they say to themselves in secret.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All I've done most of my life is write and paint <br>spring, summer, winter, fall, four seasons, <br>and a writer not only adds another dimension<br>to the state of affairs, but constitutes <br>a fifth season of his own as well, a sphere<br>of thin-skinned spirit that covers the earth <br>like an invisible aurora of imagination, <br>the third eye of a wobbling satellite <br>lost in space with spiritual vertigo<br>like the black sheep of a shepherd moon. Five<br>seasons in all, but the fifth includes the other four <br>like a mood ring on a chameleon in front of a mirror. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the rest of my life in between <br>exotic flame-outs and catastrophic inspirations <br>has been about running back home to my life <br>like an ambulance, a squad car, or a fire truck, <br>and, yes, even the occasional water bomber <br>to put a root fire out before it broke into blossom <br>and spread like daylilies to the rest of the neighbourhood. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just as I can't help looking extemporally at <br>the extraordinarily ordinary dandelions sometimes <br>and thinking they must have been born middle-aged <br>because they all look like yellow G-7 type bachelor suns <br>that have rubber-stamped themselves all over the place.<br>Dandelion wine, but I wonder if anyone of them <br>ever longed to be born a red head, looked <br>at the gypsy poppies like blood at the side of the road, <br>wearing too much black mascara, and wished somehow <br>they could be just as uniquely scarlet and carefree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And in the night, out in the woods on my own<br>without a light or a fire for a companion<br>you're never alone with, I think, o yes, <br>a poppy or a dandelion would be good right about now<br>and I make them a mental substitute through <br>intense creative visualization and though <br>I'll sit out here spiritually naked all night<br>somehow by the morning I've melted a block of ice <br>like a Tibetan monk in the Himalayas<br>who was trying to focus on stars.<br> <br>So when I take these long starwalks <br>through the desolation of stark and delicate things, <br>and their ferociously bold slow-hand insistence <br>on returning the way they came like fruits <br>ye shall know them by, back to the wild apple trees, <br>I'm not just walking among solid things <br>that overemphasize their reality at the expense <br>of realizing their full potential as an event of metaphors <br>that can shapeshift musically into anything they want to be <br>from dandelions with short haircuts<br>to poppies with the manes of solar flares.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My life is being conducted by a symphony of fiddleheads<br>at a seance of violins. I look at the desiccated milkweed pods<br>and I don't see a coffin or a brittle fortune-cookie of a womb <br>that's gone to seed, but the eyelids of visionaries <br>who gave up everything to the seeing they had to give <br>like millions of little ghostly white parachutes of moonlight<br>landing like prophetic time-capsules from the flowers <br>who refused to go blind, even after jumping from paradise, <br>and emptier than a widow's mailbox <br>still stare blankly up at the stars <br>with their mouths open in utter amazement<br>trying to remember all their children's names and myths of origins<br>shawled over their shoulders like the Milky Way<br>as if that were some kind of cold comfort <br>for a lifetime of absurdly trying to rinse <br>the shadows out of the light with their tears.</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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passing through town. Venus, Jupiter, Mercury 
long gone down for the rest of the night. 
Orion a pale imitation of itself in the west. 
Mars near Regulus, the little king with the heart of the lion, ..."></div>
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