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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476613" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>However Gratified I Am</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">However gratified I am, always I'm left with a hunger <br>for something more than I've tasted before<br>as if my emptiness were not perfect yet and I were <br>ready to let everything ride on a single throw of my skull<br>up against the wall just to see what falls out of its own will, <br>or change my species once in a while. Over-reaching<br>perhaps, spiritual pleonaxia, something amiss with my heart <br>or maybe I just don't want to be left behind, resigned <br>to an expanding universe I can't keep up with. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Things are as they are. It's clear. My mind's a hawk <br>with the blinders off. I've thawed the diamond. <br>Enlightenment flows through my heart like electricity. <br>I'm shining. I don't need a star to find my way home in the dark.<br>I can look upon the earth demonically. <br>I can see it through the eyes of the angel. <br>But the fireflies have taught me all they have to share. <br>And the lightning looks like a slacker compared <br>to the discipline I exact from myself just to<br>shock me out of the old growth forest in my heartwood <br>like a chainsaw, despite the nails I've hammered into it <br>like a crucifix without a saviour, an ark without a sail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though I've beamed like the full moon out over the harvest<br>the bounty of life never quite fills me all the way up to the brim.<br>I'm always a dropp shy of my longing for completion, <br>as if there were always a crack in the cup I drank from. <br>And this agony has summoned me for years <br>from as far back as my beginningless beginnings <br>like a bell that swings both ways between sex and death <br>and though I answer it like the s.o.s. of a lapwing<br>by the time I get there, it's irrevocably gone<br>as if it were just a ruse that were leading me on. <br>Deeper into life? Though what I make of it, like the stars, <br>I make alone? No trysts on the rainbow bridge at midnight? <br>No god to rejoice in these works of love within me? <br>No abyss to delight in the sheer absurdity of it? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A gleeman, a jester, a sacred clown, a morose fool, <br>a mystic, a scholar, a sailor that went down with the ship <br>just to stay true to the spirit of the storm within me, <br>an open doorway for the dead to come and go as they please, <br>an astronomical prodigy, an optician of mirrors and prisms, <br>a cowboy Zen master who rode into town on a seahorse, <br>a poet living on the edge of the word that thrives like weeds <br>around the graves in the cemeteries of the dead metaphors <br>I'm always digging up like a dog who buried a bone.<br>A gardener on the moon, an usher of history, a lover <br>who learned to sing like a martyr in the flames <br>of a gnostic heresy that gave up all its claims to knowledge, <br>a triviality that mentored the grand scheme of things <br>in the mystic specificity of not just the cosmos, <br>but the chaos under our noses as well, and all these avatars, <br>this pageant of characters I look back on now <br>like a children's crusade, consumed like straw dogs <br>in the fires of their adoration, and the smoke they left<br>like a script on the air, unencompassed by any direction of prayer. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A lunar mirage behind a veil of heat, a delusion of water <br>I raise to the lips of the man on the moon to drink slowly<br>from his own hands, and the mouth of the man he sees in them. <br>I hang on a hook through my gut in the air and speak <br>in tongues of pain nemetic forecasts of the New Year<br>as a volunteer for the mystic excruciation of agony into bliss, <br>without insisting that it should be so, and each time <br>I say next year that's going to be effortless, but it never is. <br>I've tried denying it to win its affirmation. <br>I've tried affirming it to have it issue a denial<br>and still it haunts my solitude like a mute siren I can' t resist.<br>And don't want to hear. And don't want to listen to. <br>This undemanding imperative to live more deeply, more darkly<br>than I ever have before such that all my dragons <br>are diminished into fireflies at a distance by comparison<br>trying to burn their way out of the blackholes <br>I enter like a rite of passage I can't do anything but trust <br>to the other side of why I risk so much to be here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can hear the wind howling through me like a wounded wolf<br>cauterizing its heart with stars. No mercy on the mountain, <br>I steel my blood cells with the carbon of old extinctions<br>and eat the pain, gnawing on a bone in my mouth. <br>Praying to my own echo for silence, cessation, release, <br>without taking a step backward over the edge of where I came from. <br>Let it come, let it come, let it come, encounter or collision the same, <br>exit or entrance, gate, wall, consummation or the upper limit <br>of it all just before it turns into a windfall of beginner's luck <br>and I'm the chance it takes I'm not playing dice with the universe.<br>That there's more to learn from a curse than a blessing.<br>That all this isn't just an agonizing farce of humourless shadows, <br>non-spatial impersonalities slowly being humanized <br>by life masks of scar tissue as a way of facing up to things. <br>That a calling isn't just a matter of putting up a plaque <br>to commemorate the garden life was first introduced to time in. <br>That humans weren't just born to be sundials of the flesh. <br>That suffering is a dark enlightenment that's mother of the stars <br>and compassion tastes of the tears of the tree it ripened on.<br>That ego isn't the king of thorns in a world full of balloons.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or if so. A rose is a mere rhetorical device of the blood<br>and there's nothing beautiful about a puncture wound<br>to a mythically-inflated universe waiting for a heart transplant. <br>That art's just the phoney climax of an unbearable impotence<br>that breeds cunning and guile as an antidote to spontaneity<br>and it's an indictable offence to bear true witness<br>to the untenable relationship between the fiction of beauty <br>and the delirium of meaning that follows in its wake <br>like gulls behind a river barge of surgically removed body parts<br>being dumped out at sea like bad meat down a neighbour's well. <br>Anomie. Ennui. Menses and memes of homogenous angst. Normalcy<br>of reflexive desecration. Solipsistic nihilism. Home-grown anarchy.<br>Gnats in the dusk. Frenzied star clusters. Saddles without horses <br>lined up seriatim along the fence like the pelvises of extinct animals <br>waiting to get asked to the dance by a water ballet of wheelchairs.<br>Schools of thought slyly amended by X-box. <br>Heavily armed poets buying bad ammunition for their books<br>and the clarity of a life that was never there to return to <br>going through violent paroxysms of withdrawal in de tox. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Locusts dying in the starfields they swarmed like civilization.<br>Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? <br>I'm out here in the weeds, ploughing the moon back under.<br>Let the seeds fall where they will on any night of the calendar.<br>Intense heat. Unusual sprouts. I'm not a hunter, not a farmer.<br>No ploughshares beaten into swords, no swords into bells.<br>I don't read meanings into what I sow like dragons' teeth, <br>open gates to let things in and out or through. <br>I was an exile in progress the day before I was born <br>to be returned to my solitude like a waterclock <br>of siloes and urns on the moon scattering my ashes <br>among the stars that bloom to be consumed by their hunger, <br>as it is becoming increasingly clear to me I do <br>like a salmon leaping upstream against the flow of time, <br>to spoonfeed the abyss an elixir of remedial eyes.</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=476613" data-title="However Gratified I Am de Patrick White" data-description="However gratified I am, always I'm left with a hunger 
for something more than I've tasted before
as if my emptiness were not perfect yet and I were 
ready to let everything ride on a single throw of my skull
up against the wall just to see what f..."></div>
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