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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476590" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Galactic Darkness</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Galactic darkness. Luna moths <br>drawn in by the zircon oases of <br>candles on the coffee-table <br>burning behind plate-glass<br>like the muses of consumer longing, <br>given how far it is to fly to the stars, <br>though nothing blocks the way, <br>their wings spread on the windows <br>like death masks and decals on a suitcase, <br>stamps on forlorn loveletters<br>that can labour over every sacred syllable <br>for effect, but still eat <br>the ashes of neglect for real. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But, then, again, how can you fail <br>if you're mad, if you can feel <br>in your blood, how the stars <br>can start fires here on earth <br>using the fireflies for chemical fuses? <br>Or the moon, her moths, for proxies? <br>Bless the beatific insanity of crazy wisdom <br>pursuing an earthly excellence <br>in the eye of inviolate perfection <br>to add its petal of light to the shedding <br>of the unsayable rose that ignites the soul<br>to the dragon of longing and devotion <br>that dwells within like serpent fire <br>waiting on the wind, that's you, <br>to give it wings with every breath you take. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just because you can name all the trees <br>in the forest, doesn't mean <br>you've explored a wilderness <br>or suffered the dangerous ordeals <br>of your rite of passage through it<br>to uninhabitable states of mind <br>your adaptable presence <br>spontaneously humanizes<br>with the unlikelihood of you even <br>being there with your mountainous outlook<br>and sidereal overview about<br>the apparent impersonality of the universe <br>putting its roots down in you like fruitful tree<br>with a windfall of sustainable planets at your feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O little mystic, in midnight shades <br>of Prussian blue, it isn't true if you <br>were to look into the face of your god <br>your eyes would burn like an oilspill <br>on an ocean of of prescient wavelengths <br>that will turn on you like a snake <br>from the burning faucet of a toxic housewell.<br>Embrace what consumes you like fire at the stake. <br>In the blast furnace of the universe they peer into <br>like the source of the mystery that absorbs them <br>the astronomers have recast their eyes <br>into philosophically ground lenses and pyrex mirrors <br>silvered by a quarter ounce of their vaporous spirits<br>looking for clarity in a cloud of unknowing<br>the way the morning air cleans its stardust off with the dew. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing less than everything all the time.<br>What does the world hold back in reserve, <br>or your bodymind all you need and prefer <br>to be as lost as a feather in the shadow of a sundial <br>as the nightbird you are now, afraid <br>of where the wind might carry you <br>far from the aviary of that golden cage <br>of a voice-box that's trained you <br>what to say to strangers who ask <br>when was the last time you went looking <br>for continents in a flood, or even <br>went down with one like Mu or Atlantis, <br>the kingfisher captain of the ship? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Take a cometary approach and leap <br>from your black halo into the sun <br>as if you were jumping orbitals <br>from a burning bridge where<br>the serious arsonists come <br>to commit suicide by flinging themselves <br>like fire on the water to see if, <br>like the reflections of the stars, <br>they can get over their hydrophobia, <br>by realizing the pilot lights of their fever <br>can never wholly be put out once <br>they start spreading like a wildfire <br>through the zodiac, house by house. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But you don't need a fire department <br>in the inflammable amethyst village<br>sequestered in the coffin of your spiritual life <br>like a seed afraid to come out of itself <br>like foxfire after a cosmic conflagration. <br>You don't need to dream your totem alone <br>in a fire-tower in the woods, <br>high among the crowns of the trees <br>polling fireflies and meteors by the minute, <br>to see if you've got what it takes <br>to get something started within yourself<br>that isn't just another demonic firecracker <br>you throw at the ghosts of your afterlives <br>like pebbles and beans, to scare them away.<br> <br>Pinocchio runs to the pyre of his karma<br>in the sacred ashes of someone else's lifemask <br>though the flame at the end of his nose <br>is a dead giveaway he's attached too many strings <br>to the box kite self-immolating in the power lines <br>he thought he could do a quick fly over <br>like a transmigratory bird avoiding a snake pit<br>that's trying to catch its eye like a liar's holy book, <br>two minutes with a hook, then dead air <br>when the hits are shelved like golden ashes <br>in the urns of an elephant graveyard<br>where the poachers come to salvage<br>the tusks and crescent moons of their mnemonic relics. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Any fool can make a religion out of a salvationist alibi<br>by telling themselves that we were all no good <br>before we were born, and we all need to be recalled <br>like Toyota suvs for legally culpable emergency repairs<br>at mystically specific authorized garages<br>and shrines with forklifts for spiritual vehicles <br>to have their undercarriages inspected in the pits of hell<br>by gurus with Jiffy Lube all over their coveralls<br>greasing the wheel bearings of the celestial omnibus<br>to turn round and round and round <br>like the wheel of birth and death suspended in mid air <br>and going, as the crow flies, nowhere. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Don't scorn the fire in the darkness of the coal <br>that burns on the inside when there's nothing <br>but diamonds freezing at the door on the outside<br>or looking down in longing like the stars <br>at the flurries of chimney sparks rising<br>like intimate insights with the lifespan <br>of enraptured gnats at dusk, to illuminate<br>the fixed assumptions of the mythic shining<br>with impromptu constellations of their own<br>in a smaller darkness closer to home <br>that glow at night like astral plastic stars<br>stuck to the ceiling of a child's bedroom<br>made infinitely intimate and wondrous <br>according to the orders of her intuitive seeing<br>when she walks in the starfields, following <br>the fragrance of whatever's she's dreaming <br>whether the road evaporates like smoke <br>from a fire on a cold night in the distance, <br>or unfolds like a starmap of wildflowers, <br>a bird with a library of feathers for wings, <br>she embraces the vast, vacant, interstellar spaces, <br>the sublime, empty vastness of the tabla rasa <br>of her imagination, the light emerging out of the void<br>into the eyes of the uncarved lifemasks<br>of the most tender and homely of things.</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=476590" data-title="Galactic Darkness de Patrick White" data-description="Galactic darkness. Luna moths 
drawn in by the zircon oases of 
candles on the coffee-table 
burning behind plate-glass
like the muses of consumer longing, 
given how far it is to fly to the stars, 
though nothing blocks the way, 
their wings spre..."></div>
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