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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476594" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Getting Up</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Getting up on the first legs of the morning, <br>waiting to remember I know how to walk, <br>as my body changes shifts<br>and I emerge from the dream-mist<br>not knowing if I'm stepping out of a lifeboat or a cocoon, <br>if yesterday's oars have turned into wings, <br>or the silver blood of the mud bone <br>greened like old copper<br>at the scene of a crime<br>or if my heart has finally congealed <br>like a suspicious scar <br>on the mood ring of the moon<br>as I resent the orthodoxy of the petty rituals<br>I have yet to perform with blades and foam and water<br>on a face that almost scares me <br>it is so diminishingly mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it's radiant, and the sun <br>is reflected in every windshield, <br>in every palace of ice and hovel of glass, <br>and even the deepest eclipse within me <br>that weeps like a dragon <br>is remotely enhanced by the shining.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Today I will make money. <br>Today I will pay bills. <br>Today I will fix the car. <br>Today I will feed myself intelligently and exercise, <br>trying to prolong my bruising campaign against death; <br>I will walk in and out of banks and stores <br>and greet people with as much sincerity <br>as they are capable of, careful <br>not to pour the ocean into a teacup<br>or think a tear sufficient to mourn the dead seas of the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I will be congenial, kind, and generous; <br>I will scatter tropical trail mix <br>in the parking lot of Pizza Hut for the birds <br>though I know it annoys people <br>who worry about shit on their cars, <br>and walk away feeling like an insurgent <br>who bombed the marketplace into life<br>with dried pineapple not shrapnel, <br>though it's a pathetic protest to offend<br>the protocols of their chronic opprobrium <br>by feeding a few birds more<br>than made it through the freezing night before<br>and excuses nothing in me that I often fear is worse <br>when I consider what I could be doing and don't <br>because the picket up my intimate ass is the universe<br>and everything turns on that <br>like the paddlewheel of a Mississippi showboat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All day long I will apply Buddhas and Zen masters like poultices <br>to draw the infection of the world out of my blood <br>like the noxious fume of a festering rose, <br>and then upbraid myself insightfully, <br>confessing to a delegation of mirrors<br>that it is my seeing, my eyes <br>that smear the view like slugs, <br>and that I am obsessively defeated by what I condemn<br>because I am them, I am them, I am them. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And that's when I pull the trigger on myself like a fire alarm, <br>knowing no one's coming to put me out, <br>because I haven't been tested for the right emergency<br>and there's never a pilot light on the mystic urgency<br>to at least be right about the way I know I'm wrong.<br> <br>But no matter how you beat it, <br>you can't beat a violin concerto out of a gong<br>or labour the rime of light on the lips of a black hole into honey. <br>All day I will look upon small trees <br>chained like slaves to a square meter <br>of lonely earth in an asphalt parking lot<br>and profoundly lament <br>the intrusive derangement of my species<br>that abomination after abomination, shames the fly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the fate of a shopping mall sapling <br>may be the bathetic token <br>of something more profoundly unspoken, <br>but all day my spirit will be unmothered <br>by the existential complicity<br>of being here like rain on the blood of the roadkill<br>my karmic imbalance tries to unmean<br>as everything I cherish turns slightly obscene.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But I know a star cluster far away beyond my fingertips <br>with the body of a serpent woman<br>who charms the clay she caresses<br>by playing her fates and phases on the flutes of the moon<br>as if every breath were the wind in a gust of doves<br>she scatters like the sheet music of a liberated choir.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And all day I will taste the infinite constellation of her stars <br>unspooling the lifeline of the mystery I follow <br>through the labyrinth of the moon's horn gates<br>like cool transfusions of night through my blood <br>as I turn her image in my heart <br>like a mysterious jewel <br>that once wept her crown away<br>to lift a veil of water like an eye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I will smile through the day serenely within <br>remembering so many things, so many lives, <br>so many fireflies of tenderness that haven't happened yet, <br>and the unsayable passion of the lips that wake the dragon<br>like a flame to the wick that candles the volcano<br>into a fury of ecstasy that shocks <br>the starmaps billions of lightyears away, <br>and she will be my secret and my sail<br>and I will disappear over her five horizons like a treble clef<br>or the whole note of a fleeing night bird into its hidden nocturne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All day she will flourish within me to heal the mystic herbalist <br>who knows beyond flower and frond<br>the dark virtue of the black honey <br>that pours from her own wounded root like time. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I can be moved by women who are goblets <br>spilling over with wine, and women <br>who turn moonlight into glass<br>and stand sad and empty <br>against the vastness of the sky, <br>witching for mirrors, and those <br>who were Japanese plum tree blossoms in spring, <br>the dangerous wine of the rose, <br>now shattered on the ground <br>as if the moon had slipped its finger from the ring.<br> <br>And I have loved the loveliest <br>and least attentive among them, <br>and those who were mortal and mad, <br>and the black peonies of the sexually bad <br>who have indulged me by shedding their eclipses<br>until we fell down exhausted beside each other, <br>two petals in the mud.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But she has stars in her blood <br>that spice the tongue of the snake, <br>the grail horns of the divining rod<br>and the tine of the lightning<br>that tunes the ashes of the burnt guitar <br>as if it were still a tree<br>to the tears of the willow, <br>and I am addicted by a muse <br>to a delirium of longing<br>that burns like a loveletter<br>written in light and blood and shadows<br>that slides me under her door <br>with every breath I take<br>and unfolds me like a sky or a bird, <br>a fossilized constellation <br>buried in the shale of a starmap, <br>to shine deep within all day long <br>beyond the light like stars <br>at the bottom of a well at noon <br>where she comes to drink like the moon. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">PATRICK WHITE</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=476594" data-title="Getting Up de Patrick White" data-description="Getting up on the first legs of the morning, 
waiting to remember I know how to walk, 
as my body changes shifts
and I emerge from the dream-mist
not knowing if I'm stepping out of a lifeboat or a cocoon, 
if yesterday's oars have turned into wing..."></div>
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