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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476609" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Honeysuckle And Wild Raspberries</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Honeysuckle and wild raspberries. <br>Enclaves of sap green shadows <br>where the grasshoppers take shelter from the sun. <br>Cerulean blue chicory by the side of the road<br>and star clusters of New England asters<br>thrust like a bouquet of constellations <br>through the broken down stave <br>of a cedar rail fence <br>that's past caring <br>whether it keeps things in <br>or lets them out. <br>Here once <br>many years ago <br>I tried to live far away from pain <br>and here again <br>though I know better now <br>than to think paradise <br>is any kind of anodyne <br>my eye is caught off guard <br>by every manner of earthly excellence<br>that isn't ambivalent or deceitful.<br>I once walked this dirt road <br>for five miles one night <br>followed by what looked like <br>a black wolf with ruby eyes<br>that flashed like an ambulance in the moonlight<br>every time I turned around <br>to see if it was still there <br>or if it were closing on me. <br>A fire walk of fear.<br>I won't say I found courage that night.<br>I would say I was unscared. <br>The moon weaves silver dreamcatchers <br>for the spiders<br>and even the low growl <br>of a wilderness that's grown curious about you <br>can be a liberating mantra. <br>I approach this place <br>like the creative imagination of a good teacher<br>unfurling the sails of the morning glory<br>like spare parachutes <br>to catch the wind <br>and sail all the way down the Yang-tze River <br>like the swans of anonymous loveletters.<br>Violet loosestrife and goldenrod.<br>Flowers are what <br>complementary colours look like <br>when they're dancing. <br>And here I learned <br>picking up the skulls of squirrels and groundhogs <br>as if they were pinecones<br>and watching the bewilderment <br>of a wounded doe <br>try and fail to clear a fence <br>that would have been child's play to her yesterday<br>and the two children <br>buried before they were four <br>at the turn of the century <br>up on the top of the high hill <br>under a shipwreck of an oak <br>that's never put to sea<br>how death is as equally acceptable to life <br>as life is to death. <br>The wild grapevines <br>are writing their own kind of music <br>drunk on whole notes <br>and the dragonflies are coming down <br>like C.I.A. drones <br>on cells of terrorist mosquitoes.<br>Though I'm cellularly immersed in it<br>there's a gap between me and nature<br>that isn't so much the space between <br>one thing and another <br>as it is a bubble of thought and passion<br>in a great sea of vivifying awareness<br>washed up on the shores of consciousness<br>like a bottle from a faraway place <br>with no message inside<br>except light years and light years of longing. <br>Nature is the midwife of a serial killer.<br>Nature is the dark mother that gives birth to all things. <br>Nature is a metaphor for me <br>as I am for it. <br>A coincidence of the contradictories. <br>Closer than a face is to its own reflection. <br>Closer than the sea is <br>that wraps this airy nothing in a skin of water <br>and then treats it to the tattoo it's always wanted <br>on its birthday <br>like the sign of the house it was born under<br>in the black stars of an unforgettable constellation. <br>Someone once said <br>that death was self-containment. <br>I disagree with that. <br>Life is a bubble. <br>And poof! <br>In the twinkling of an eye <br>there goes the neighbourhood. <br>Death is rapid expansion into the open.<br>Life toes the threshold <br>but it's death that crosses it <br>and enters its homelessness <br>like the primordial atom <br>on the road to nowhere <br>that isn't here and now. <br>Down to the swamp <br>to check out the water lilies.<br>I painted down here for years <br>with a French easel as shaky as a fawn <br>getting up on its folding legs for the first time. <br>A blue heron snaps the air like a wet sheet <br>and startles the frogs into popcorn. <br>Life soup. <br>Green scum. <br>A deer path <br>and a beaver <br>repairing a mud hut <br>that would have turned into civilization <br>if it hadn't harvested trees <br>instead of grass.<br>You can hear the silence <br>of a watchful presence <br>over and above the sounds<br>of life going on all around you <br>when you're alone in a marsh like this. <br>You can smell the transformation<br>of the duff and decay <br>into the beauty food of the waterlilies.<br>You can tine the air like the tongue of a snake <br>and taste the cauldron brewing <br>the eye of the newt <br>and the one-legged frog <br>into the ambrosia of water hyacinths<br>as blue as Raphael. <br>I feel like the sorcerer's apprentice <br>the first day on the job.<br>A praying mantis. <br>A Vietnam of dragonflies. <br>But what I saw here day after day <br>through all four seasons of the year <br>I'd come down here to paint<br>showed me nature is nurture <br>and life suckles at death's tit. <br>But you can't tell <br>who's being raised by whose assassin. <br>Who's the exit.<br>Who's the entrance.<br>Because there's just one big open gate<br>hinged like birds to the sky <br>with nothing written above it<br>as a sign of welcome or warning<br>and you're greeted by nothing but your own presence.<br>And I've sat out here by myself <br>until the first light of morning<br>just to look for clues among the stars. <br>But the mysteries don't answer you <br>like questions it occurred to you to ask <br>They go on and on forever <br>like wounded joys<br>the radiance and the wonder <br>cut so deep <br>they never want to heal.<br>You can appeal to the stars for clarity. <br>You can look for small suggestions in the grass.<br>You can get a feel <br>for where the wildflowers <br>like to gather in abandoned fields<br>and where the pioneers <br>who grew them in gardens <br>just behind the summer kitchen <br>like Bouncing Bet <br>whose sap they used for soap<br>buried the tiny children<br>who died of scarlet fever <br>under the crude grave stones <br>of the Canadian Shield.<br>And the hills they chose like nannies <br>to watch over them <br>with beauty and affection.<br>And the silence and the sorrow <br>of the long sparse walk <br>back down to the farm without them. <br>And when you put your ear up to their abyss <br>you'd swear you could hear their voices <br>asking you the same questions <br>that they asked of themselves.<br>Is there a meaning to all this <br>that's more than just a flash <br>of lightning and fireflies? <br>Anything you can say or feel about life <br>that isn't always two children shy of the truth?</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=476609" data-title="Honeysuckle And Wild Raspberries de Patrick White" data-description="Honeysuckle and wild raspberries. 
Enclaves of sap green shadows 
where the grasshoppers take shelter from the sun. 
Cerulean blue chicory by the side of the road
and star clusters of New England asters
thrust like a bouquet of constellations 
thr..."></div>
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