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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476598" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Gone Soon Enough</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gone soon enough. To who knows where, <br>though I suspect the question answers itself <br>if there's a there to get to at all. Deal with this now <br>and maybe that, given opposites engender <br>one another out of their procreative union, <br>will be tended to as well in every mystic detail.<br>Mark one jewel and they're all marked. <br>Do unto one of these and you do unto me. <br>And maybe this is the belief of every leaf in the fall, <br>but with me when I'm trying on ghosts <br>to go with my death mask, it's merely one <br>of a myriad passing thoughts and scenarios <br>impassioned by the inspired absurdity <br>of trying to conceptualize the inconceivable. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not void bound, though I'm free, I still hope, <br>more love and loyalty than clinging to mirages, <br>to take all the stars with me, and the moon and the sun, <br>the wind, the stone, the flower and all the sorrows <br>I've venerated over the years as shrines <br>to unknown lovers who suffered as anonymously as I did <br>to accord their solitude the dignity of a sword <br>and their silence the clarity of a window into the soul<br>transfigured like space by the nature of its contents<br>into the bodymind of a human who's given up <br>looking for signs of greater things to come <br>since he followed the breadcrumbs out of a dark wood <br>into a clearing where he realized, looking up at the stars <br>for paradigms of light he might be able to recognize <br>to get his bearings, the whole of his awareness <br>from the beginningless beginning was revelation <br>out of nothing, rootless blossoms on the wind, <br>emptiness with a thousand stamps on it <br>like a loveletter he wanted to be sure got there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No message. No medium. However you parse <br>the expression into a million punctuation marks <br>like traffic lights of the silence, and the stillness <br>irremediable, and the stars not the measure of their light.<br>The many return to the one and the one returns to transcendence, <br>as the doge of Zen once said, out of everyone's mouth at once<br>as he did in twelfth century Tokugawa Japan. <br>When the Japanese plum tree blossoms, <br>it's not speaking for itself, it's an expression <br>with as many voices as the universe has atoms to say it, <br>solo or in chorus, acapella or accompanied by the wind<br>lamenting the ashes of the blue guitar of the moon, <br>neither an urn, nor a womb, or the rain improvising <br>Scarlatti on a harpsichord of plectral thorns attuned <br>to our tears and spinal cords. If the painting, the poem, <br>the life doesn't lead you to the unattainable within yourself, <br>if you try to contain the feeling, the image, the insight<br>in the Mason jar of the brain like the spooky green lights <br>of the fireflies riding their own eyebeams like Einstein <br>the clock on the town hall tower, until time stops <br>and space becomes infinite, and nothing outweighs<br>the feather or the flower, you won't be struck down <br>by your own light. Things are retaliatory and petty like that. <br>But it will be awhile before the Canada geese leaving now <br>bearing the souls of the dead south and west, <br>return for you bereft in this realm of arrival and departure. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Death, too, has its muses, its nightbirds, <br>and none of them are widows at the window or the well.<br>None of them part the curtains or the veils like a death shroud. <br>They're not the screening myths for what <br>we dare not say out loud lest the silence is listening <br>in a deathcart parked across the street. You are <br>the corpse telling you your own life story <br>and you're the green fire of the living bough <br>that lights the funeral pyres of its own ancestral stumps<br>to burn them out with the intensity of your life <br>paying homage to your own transformations.<br> <br>Though everything I've just said is smoke on the wind<br>to the living, that isn't a sign of its evanescence, <br>because to the dead, it's an imperishable lyric<br>sung by a ghost of picture-music so free and unconstrained <br>they can hear their hearts still beating like the echo <br>of distant thunder or wild moonlit horses <br>running through the high fields like Pegasus <br>flying with eagles and swans among the stars, <br>albino periods shining at the beginning of endless things<br>the middle extremes of every moment of the mindstream <br>rising like a waterbird with unborn life <br>and imperishable death for wings, and in its voice <br>all the silence, sacred syllables, and wavelengths <br>of everything that sings a child to sleep in its dreams <br>like a new violin safe in the arms of the mystery <br>that seasons it like the heartwood of a broad-leafed maple, <br>spruce, or the willow with lyrical eyes down by the river <br>trying to write a song for the waters of life <br>in the shadows of birds in passage across the moon<br>as if she'd just taken the words right out of my mouth.</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=476598" data-title="Gone Soon Enough de Patrick White" data-description="Gone soon enough. To who knows where, 
though I suspect the question answers itself 
if there's a there to get to at all. Deal with this now 
and maybe that, given opposites engender 
one another out of their procreative union, 
will be tended to ..."></div>
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