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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476596" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>God, I Hurt Sometimes For Reasons I Can Only Guess</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">for Sally</div><div style="margin:10px 0">God, I hurt sometimes for reasons I can only guess.<br>Don't know what it is, too much love, too little, <br>but it feels like I'm giving birth to fog, <br>or my heart is standing in the doorway <br>of an abandoned chrysalis asking if <br>we could do it all a little differently this time, <br>and ingather like the nebulae of the stars<br>instead of the circus tents of these gypsy moths <br>swarming the Dutch elms like fake starmaps<br>that don't know much about shining in the dark, <br>but eat mini blackholes through the leaves <br>that have known greener days of radiance, <br>and more creative things to do with the light.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can see the stars even in daylight <br>from the bottom of this fathomless well <br>only the snakes and the frogs and the fireflies <br>descend into to drink from the dark watershed <br>of the mystery I'm swimming through <br>like an albino bioluminescent fish through black ink<br>trying to find the words to express this sorrow <br>that overtakes me from time to time <br>as if life's waterclock had confined itself <br>to one bucket for awhile. And time had stopped. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's as if I could feel every wound in the world<br>pierce the hummingbird of my heart on the thorns <br>of a black rose, as if I could feel the secret grief <br>of the yellow star in the violet eye of the beautiful lady <br>who toxically weeps like the belladonna <br>under the chandeliers of the deadly nightshade <br>that cures what it kills in love <br>administering death like mercy to put her lover <br>out of his misery with an oceanic love potion<br>he can't help but thrive upon like nectar and ambrosia. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As if I were picking up the small body of a sparrow <br>in the cradle of my hands and seeing in it, <br>its random extinction in the face of the windowpane<br>that lied, the death of the sky. And it's strange <br>that I do, that my eyes should fill with unprompted tears<br>that I'm digging a hole with my bare hands <br>in the same bed of tiger lilies I buried my goldfish in <br>like the big June bugs lying on their backs <br>perfectly preserved out in the open on the cement sidewalk<br>where I stopped to bury them with a finger for a spade, <br>when no one was looking who might laugh at me, <br>and mark their graves with two blades of grass, <br>on my way back from rugby practise, on King's Street, <br>to make sure nobody stepped on them just for fun, <br>as if death itself weren't already enough of a desecration, <br>a seeming destruction, to satisfy them for awhile. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it's silly, I know, to bury the dead <br>in the soil of my heart as if they were bulbs <br>I planted in the fall to bloom in the spring<br>like the bells of the blue hyacinth <br>and the white gold daffodils of a pagan Easter<br>emerging like the high priestesses of a mystery religion<br>that returns resurrection to the womb of a woman.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Amorphous pain, homogeneously dispersed, <br>like the afterbirth of the background universal hiss <br>that miscarried into the post-natal depression<br>of an emptiness that keeps reversing its spin <br>on the state of things like synchronous happenings<br>in the charged particle field of a duplicitous politician, <br>like a ghost in the rain, like a faraway train, <br>my heart's the red lantern of a Chinese box-kite <br>way down the line at the last stop <br>where no one gets off, and no one arrives, <br>and there are no starmaps like tourist brochures<br>to point out like cabbies, the hotspots <br>of what's shining down upon nothing tonight. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can feel the inhuman solitude <br>of eighty thousand prisoners sentenced <br>to years of isolation in the third eye of the pen<br>chewing on their shadows like leg-hold traps, <br>and the contemplative vengeance of their keepers<br>walking the night rounds with socks on their feet<br>in the wee hours of the morning as if it were they<br>who had avoided capture and mastered failure <br>by defeating these uncaged in their sleep. <br>As Robert Louis Stevenson said, or was it Walter de la Mare, <br>tread lightly for you tread on my dreams, <br>some like mushrooms, some like landmines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But it isn't the kind of pain you can factor <br>a cause into like fireflies into the Slough of Despond, <br>or the Valley of Death, after the storm has passed <br>like an electric chair that's just thrown the switch. <br>It's softer than that, inclusive, embrasive, almost <br>lunar in its compassion for the least of things<br>from flies with wings torn off like the pages <br>of a calendar, June bugs, to the orphanage of asteroids <br>that nobody wanted when the solar system<br>was first forming into myriad nuclear family ways. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not the kind of sorrow that brings rain, but <br>pain like the condensation of hydrogen clouds <br>that have been lingering like ghosts of the stars<br>they used to be, waiting to break into light<br>like the constellation of a new myth of origin <br>to explain being exiled this far from home. <br>No grave in sight, but still I mourn <br>for all the wishing wells that <br>didn't get what they wanted<br>when they kissed the moon <br>like a coin they had blessed<br>and returned to river they had retrieved it from <br>only to discover the dark side of their luck<br>when it popped up again like a sacred syllable<br>under the forked tongue of a lottery ticket.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pain without locus, pain without focus, <br>a blur, a smear, a smudge, an atmosphere, an aura, <br>cataracts in the eyes, flowers in the sky, <br>and everywhere I see the belongings of the Beloved, <br>her passion for lightning and fireflies, <br>scattered all over this unbegotten house of life <br>like battered flowers and shattered trees <br>and power-outages that make the stars flicker<br>and black out, for days at a time, like an ice-storm<br>in the middle of summer, passing over the distant hills, <br>like a glacier following its own melting <br>all the way to the dark night sea<br>as if water, as it is to a river a raindropp and a tear<br>whether it's painted on a clown's face or not, <br>or just trying to make the mascara of the poppies run, <br>were the only guide it could trust.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And these are the green swords of the gladiolas <br>and wild violet irises down by the river <br>where the waterlilies and the corpses flow by <br>like floats in a parade of burning flowers <br>that make the river's eyes run with grief and bliss, <br>hello, farewell, good-by, as if you just saw<br>the silouhette of a bird fly across the moon <br>with a few beats of its wings, a small pulse, <br>the brief thought moment of a passing wavelength, <br>like my own, a braille dot on the starmap of a blind star, <br>with the emotions and aspirations of a Cepheid variable<br>trying to keep pace with the measure of the death march<br>beating on the drum of my heart<br>like dollops of funereal rain on a tin roof. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And what do you learn when you die like this <br>for the things you lived in the name of too long <br>to bear the loss of the world mountain <br>on the turtle of your heart when the black swan <br>of the new moon has been snapped up from below<br>as if the only way you can come to the end of things <br>is to run out of beginnings, and that hasn't happened yet<br>since the universe first broke into stars and went prime time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All opening nights. Everyone of them. And there are <br>scimitars of the moon at last crescent and poems and lovers <br>you can cut your wrists on like the brass moonrise <br>of a tuna fish can, if you don't really want to talk <br>to the ambulance about anything unreal as reality. <br>And you can be rushed to the emergency ward, <br>like a rose that's bleeding out, and there'll <br>you'll meet a nurse, not a nun, at the end <br>of a long tunnel of light that isn't estranged from death<br>but embodies the female principle of life <br>with a smile like a silver herb of the moon<br>and she'll inser the other fang of the snake that heals<br>into your vein like a boomslang of blood <br>hanging on the branch of a a chromium tree <br>with mandalic wheels that wobble like planets down the hall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there she'll teach you as you heal <br>that just as your lungs have learned to trust <br>the oxygen in the air that others are breathing along with you <br>like the Amazon jungle, fish in the sea, the flower <br>of the candle that blooms in fire, so your heart <br>that imbibes the skull cup of the moon down to its lees <br>to read the partial eclipses of your prophecies and dreams<br>like shipwrecks at the bottom of lunar seas <br>that have been drained of water, <br>drained of atmosphere and wine<br>looking for signs in dry creekbeds<br>like the lifelines on the palms of your hands, <br>must water the dust at your feet, <br>the stars above your head like the Milky Way, <br>the Road of Ghosts, your passage on earth, <br>with as many boodstreams in life <br>as it takes to float your lifeboat <br>on a bubble of the moon at high tide. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such is life. Such is the flashflood of love <br>that makes the seven year long sleep of the frogs <br>up to their voices in starmud, sing <br>that their dream has finally come alive again, <br>and the voodoo doll of the cactus pierced with thorns, <br>flowers, and the serpent revels in the rain <br>that falls on its scales like the petals of a marigold<br>or the keys of a piano with its eighty-eights straight<br>and plays such music as it's never heard before<br>its scales turn into the feathers of a bird, or if <br>it's enlightened, the wings of a dragon of serpent fire <br>running up your spine like the sign of a healer <br>coiled around the axis of the earth like a caduceus<br>because even a single blade of grass here<br>is a strong enough medicine to give<br>the whole world vertigo like a Sufi <br>at a crossroads on the moon<br>dancing alone with dust devils<br>when things begin to overflow again<br>like a cup, like a heart with a crack and a broken handle, <br>like a watershed in a hourglass, <br>or a mirage in a desert of stars<br>because love, when it leaves home, <br>always forgets to turn the faucet off<br>like the four rivers flowing out of Eden<br>to water the root fires in the star gardens of paradise <br>when love jumps up stream like a salmon<br>coming home to the womb it will be buried in <br>like a loveletter from the sea to the moon.</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=476596" data-title="God, I Hurt Sometimes For Reasons I Can Only Guess de Patrick White" data-description="for Sally

God, I hurt sometimes for reasons I can only guess.
Don't know what it is, too much love, too little, 
but it feels like I'm giving birth to fog, 
or my heart is standing in the doorway 
of an abandoned chrysalis asking if 
we could do ..."></div>
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